


A Story of Mortality

by this_bright_eyed_soul



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Creatures, Dark Lord Harry Potter, M/M, Naga, Politics, Sorta slowburn, Wizarding Politics, but not evil dark lord, dark magic as balance to light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-05-23 09:47:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 72,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14931932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_bright_eyed_soul/pseuds/this_bright_eyed_soul
Summary: Dark Lord Harry Potter was born 1914, and was instrumental in defeating Grindelwald. A powerful force in politics, the rising Lord Voldemort cannot avoid him, but instead of the rivalry he wishes for, political circumstances force an alliance. While both their similarities and differences clash, they cannot help but become closer over time, and both have lessons still to learn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note: this story has already been published in full on fanfic .net. I am transferring it here over the summer, ideally once a week. If you want to read the whole thing, you can find it on my account over there, this-bright-eyed-soul, but otherwise enjoy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very excited about this fic - it's the longest I've ever written (will reach at least 50,000 I think) and is quite different to what I've written before. I do apologise that the first chapter is a bit dry, as I'm just trying to set the scene a little, but the next will be more interesting, and around a decade later! I hope you enjoy reading it!

"The Dark Lord Harry Potter was born in the year of 1914, and is assumed to have origins in the north of Germany, where there are small communities of wizards with a range of magical cores, but we know he has a British parentage. He was orphaned around the age of one to three years, and it is often speculated that this was as a result of Grindelwald's early European movement, though in such a time of growing turmoil, there was little investigation into the deaths of his parents. As we know from several articles published in collaboration with Lord Potter, he was then passed on to distant muggle relatives back in Britain – now write this down, this is particularly important - though details of his upbringing are unclear, it is thought that he was badly abused there, which many consider to have an interesting impact on his political ideals towards muggles.

"He was educated in Durmstrang, one of the darkest wizarding schools in Europe, which is where his dark core flourished; remember your research on this school and  _use it_ , as I expect this will come up in the exam – education is often a big factor in the making of political figures such as Lord Potter. However, there was no concern about his dark magic turning to extremes as it did with Grindelwald; Lord Potter was tutored privately by one of the professors who had been particularly close to Grindelwald, and who particularly regretted the turn in his ex-pupil's direction. From this education and private tutoring, Lord Potter became incredibly aware of the goings on in Europe with Grindelwald, though of course he would already be interested due to his past. Once he left school, a staunch believer in the dark arts, he began working up a following of his own.

"Most scholars will agree that Lord Potter's greatest asset is his skill in rallying people, though in this instance he had particular skill in establishing the support of many strong European Dark families. These were Dark witches and wizards who were horrified by the representation of dark magic by Grindelwald. A core belief of these people was that muggles should be left well alone, but a lot of them were also very concerned by the political consequences they foresaw – Lois, please,  _listen_  to what I'm saying if you want to get at least an Average in your NEWT – the political consequences they foresaw from what would be the eventual defeat of Grindelwald. Fearing the Light taking the opportunity to increase their power in Europe once again, these Dark wizards grouped together to show a united Dark force that were also invested in protecting the magical population.

"Lord Potter then became in direct association with Albus Dumbledore, creating a rare Light-Dark alliance in order to defeat Grindelwald in 1943. From this point, Lord Potter and his following often now act as a protest group in Britain and Western Europe, a strong political presence to fight for the rights of dark creatures. Those on the Light, and many moderates, now fear in this time of peace that there will be a further growth of Dark influence in politics where they believe it is not welcome, so often this group is viewed with some hostility…"

Tom Riddle continued to scrawl away dutifully on his parchment, painstakingly drawing out the notes that he probably would not need. Professor Puddit truly managed to transform the simplest content into a complex web of maybes and useless speculation. Because, really, who needed to know that Lord Potter was  _perhaps_  abused as a child? Though, Tom supposed, it was his own fault for allowing the public to know such trivial information. If the Dark Lord was as idiotic as he appears to be from this lecture, then he would not be in the way of Tom's own rise to power at all. His concern had previously been how to assert his dominance over the character, as much of his own research seemed to suggest that Lord Potter was something of a force to be reckoned with, but it should only follow that somebody who was really like that wouldn't allow so many personal details to slip into the knowledge of others.

Still, it was a definite that more thought would need to go into Lord Potter. He supposed it was convenient for him, that these details were of public knowledge. It never did any harm to know these things, after all. And with analysing any and all of Lord Potter's mistakes – including that, naturally, of spilling one's past to the public – he would be able to make his rise swiftly, and take magical Britain entirely by surprise. Does he dare try to convert any of Lord Potter's followers? Surely, they cannot be totally loyal to such a person; they not even being marked as his. Tom's Knights of Walpurgis, as was natural, would be marked as soon as they could establish a powerbase in Britain. His followers may be useful, having far more experience than his own, largely school-boy following, but… They may not respect Tom. And Tom would demand the highest of respect. Age was no factor; he was the deadliest force in the world at this point, he was certain. Lord Potter's followers had little major influence in Britain, however. Perhaps not worth it. While Tom had the following of the Houses of Malfoy, Nott, Black, Lord Potter largely had European families behind him. This would give him an edge.

Of course, there would be no competing of policies. Lord Potter, for some reason, valued the lives of muggles and mudbloods, only going as far to say that muggles should be excluded from wizarding society. It was almost as if he didn't want to  _throw up_  at the sight of them. In addition to this, Lord Potter had not shown any inclination to political power, wishing only to put pressure on the current government. Now that was a difference. Tom dreamed of a dictatorship, only this would become a reality. A benevolent dictator, of course, only for the bettering of the wizarding people; save them from the sight of anything muggle, when they do not know how to do so themselves, increasingly showing an almost quaint fascination in the creatures. Lord Potter, for some absurd reason, appeared to  _trust_  the public. This was always the political figure's main downfall, in Tom's eyes –  _never_ , trust the public.

* * *

Lord Harry Potter was met outside the grand gates of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He could not believe that in all his years working in Britain, he had not once had the opportunity to visit the famous school; astounded that he had not until now wished to come to speak here. Just from seeing the castle upon the hill, however, almost glowing in the winter sun, it was outliving any expectations Harry had had. It was magnificent. Headmaster Dippet personally escorted him to the building, excitedly and proudly talking about his school.

"When I woke up the first time after finding out I was accepted for the post of Headmaster, I had never felt warmer!" the elderly man exclaimed. "And I have felt warm ever since. There's a special type of magic, built into the walls of Hogwarts, we all think, that whoever steps inside the castle feels immediately at home. We never have a shortage of Professors at the school, every student dreams of returning – I know that I always did."

Harry smiled and nodded, in response, but was happy merely to listen to the jolly man, and take in every sight that was appearing to him. He could see a small gamekeeper's hut by an immense forest, a sparkling lake, a Quidditch Pitch with students clearly training. Inside the halls, their steps echoed, and the paintings were keen to peek at the visitor, to then run off again, presumably to find a use for that new piece of gossip.

"They say," Headmaster Dippet continued, "that a man can walk these halls his whole life, and never discover every secret that Hogwarts has to offer. It's a very personal castle; everybody sees it the same, yet everybody will have such a different experience with it."

When they arrived at the Headmaster's office, Professor Dumbledore was there, waiting to greet them. The circular room was the most fascinatingly cluttered office; every wall lined with books, and even some more piled up on the desk. There were many stone carvings on each windowsill, and on the desk, was a modest silver service tea-set.

"Good morning, Albus!" Dippet exclaimed. "Lovely to see you, and I'm sure you're thrilled to see Lord Potter again. Would you please serve us all some tea?" he added with a wink.

"Good morning, Professor," Harry greeted, a familiar smile on his lips. "It has been too long since we've spoken."

When the man handed Harry a tea, they shook hands warmly, and Dumbledore gave a convincing smile in return.

"It has indeed" he responded; civil, but minutely disgruntled by Harry's presence all the same.

 _Probably concerned that I'm going to be shoving dark propaganda down the throats of his students_ , he thought to himself. Still, there are more exciting things in this castle than his own speech.

"Forgive me for asking, Headmaster," he started as he turned to Dippet, a sly grin on his face. "But I've always been curious; do guests have the opportunity to try the famous Sorting Hat, on their first visit?"

Dippet chuckled, and shook his head. "Usually, no, Lord Potter. Though that's perhaps because most of our visitors here were students in their younger years. But for you, as a special case, I think we can make an exception.

"You are most kind," Harry thanked the headmaster, having always wanted to know where he would be placed.

When the hat was put on his head, Harry was not sure exactly what to expect, but it certainly was not a voice inside of his head sounded just as confused as he felt.

 _What time of year do we call this? It cannot be September already; I feel as if I have barely sorted the last lot! No, no, this is not a child at all, but a man! How peculiar… Well alright then, I suppose I can sort you if that's what is required… Let me see… Ah! A strange case, this one, though maybe your age has something to do with that. A very loyal, trusting mind, buried under experience, quite a Hufflepuff trait that one… but no, too stubborn for Hufflepuff. Perhaps more Gryffindor then…? But with the precise analytical mind of a Ravenclaw… Hmm, and of course some ambition in there, quite Slytherin… Oh_ sod it _, this is far too hard for me, I can't stand sorting adults._

And then aloud, it grumbled: "Gryffindor or Slytherin – find your own way there!"

The headmaster chuckled again, and returned the hat to its home. "I don't think it appreciated being woken during the year; he's an old thing, probably very much enjoys his sleep. Fascinating answer, though, he is usually very certain in his decision, do you not find so, Albus?"

"That does usually tend to be the case, yes" agreed the deputy.

"And an interesting mix of houses, too! Gryffindor and Slytherin have always had a fierce rivalry."

"That was certainly a strange experience," conceded Harry. "I am very grateful for it though. Hogwarts truly is a unique school."

"Thank you, thank you, we do try!" the headmaster smiled. "I heard, too, Lord Potter, that you are a particular fan of our introducing the Politics NEWT, am I right in saying?"

"I am indeed, Headmaster, I had been meaning to congratulate you on the act. It is, of course, what I wish to speak about today, in fact. Politics is a most important subject for the younger generations."

"That it is, Lord Potter. Allow me to lead you to the Great Hall; the students will be congregating there to hear you speak."

* * *

Tom settled down at the end of the Slytherin table, blocked from the common students in celebrity-like style by his Knights. He supposed he was lucky to be in the room; speeches from Lord Potter were well sought after, as they tended to be both inspiring, and at times controversial. He would usually speak before the educated elite, as part of a formal debate of some sort, so that the knowledgeable could ponder over the topics brought up, but eventually dismiss them once again. Or rather, they thought that they were dismissing the ideas. What was actually happening, was that Lord Potter was placing the idea in their heads, so that once his speech disappeared from their memory, they would only be left with the idea itself; the feelings of shock at any controversy would have dissipated, and the idea would remain to them as now common sense. Known as Socio-Crypto Amnesia as he had read in a muggle psychology text. A work of genius, as loath as Tom was to admit it. Sly, Slytherin style propaganda. Regardless, he doubted this speech would be of such kind, at least not to the same extent. It was  _generally_  frowned upon to attempt to manipulate the minds of the young, and Tom couldn't imagine Dumbledore allowing such an idea to even reach Headmaster Dippet.

Lord Potter arrived at the headmaster's podium to avid applause. He appeared almost regal, and exuded a sense of power and control, for there was no talk, only claps. The man stood tall and proud as a lion, waiting patiently for the applause to end. His raven hair was tousled and wild, which Tom thought was a little informal for the occasion, but his robes were smart, clearly expensive. Tom thought at first that he had very aristocratic features; this, however, turned out to be an illusion. Piercing eyes distracted entirely from the fact that despite Lord Potter's powerful stance, his face was soft, and almost kind looking. The green eyes had been powerful enough to divert even Tom's attention away from this momentarily, and he was minutely shocked at his own folly.

As the students' applause died down, Lord Potter began to speak in a firm, but kind voice.

"Good afternoon, Hogwarts students," he started, surveying the room. "I cannot express the extent of my gratitude for the opportunity I have been given today. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is a school of highest prestige around the world. In my own education, at Durmstrang, we were all aware of it, and never-ending rumours circulated about the castle, the professors, and the students. Allow me to admit that the reality has outdone every expectation and hope that I had before my visit today. Most importantly, however, I am honoured to be speaking directly to you. A lot of adults will talk about how important the children are, how they bare the weight of the futures on their shoulders, but few will use this understanding to change how they treat you as people. I hope that I do not fall into that category.

"Though I am most well-known for my campaigning for the rights of Dark wizards and creatures, I have a passion for education. If not for education, I would not be here. I am eternally grateful for the education I have been able to receive. However, I believe that there is, too, much to improve in the area. It's a difficult thing to get right, but when successful, education is the opener of all opportunity.

"There are basics involved in education. You learn to fend for yourself, you learn to protect yourself from the dangers of the outside world, and you allow yourself to grow and to set yourself aside from others as an individual, with individual strengths. Before me now are many,  _many_  individuals, and education should reflect that. During your education, you learn who you are, and the path you were destined to take. For all my years in Durmstrang, the most important thing that I learnt was my future. There, I discovered my desperation to make political change, to fight for my people. You all are making these discoveries for yourself; be it a need to care for others, a desire to fight, a passion for the economy, or something else entirely. We go into schools as a group of malleable children, and we come out as unique adults. On top of these things, vitally, I believe, is the fact that we leave school with an understanding of politics. Unfortunately, this is something that a lot of schools have yet to establish, but I am very pleased to be congratulating Headmaster Dippet, today, on his successful introduction of the NEWT level Politics class."

Lord Potter began to clap, and the rest of the hall followed. Tom recognised the subtle glint in the man's eyes at the reaction. To most, the act of getting others to clap was of relative insignificance. But to those with a hunger for power, it was a small pleasure; knowing that you are able to influence the behaviour of a large crowd so simply, and without them even realising, was part of the world's gift to people like Tom. And, as it would seem, people like Lord Potter.

"Politics in the modern world," the man continued, his measured voice cutting off the applause, "covers a wealth of topics, and any one of you would have no problems finding an element of it that interests you, as politics is essentially what rules our society as a whole. What I'd like to make aware to you today are the things politics covers that are closest to my heart.

"Politics is protecting and furthering the rights of magical creatures. There are many magical creatures that are part of us. They participate in our society and they contribute to our progress. Take werewolves, for example. Recently, we have passed a law that allows werewolves to be employed in the public sector, in the Ministry of Magic. Now, this doesn't mean that they will be, but it's an obstacle we've overcome in their rights. Werewolves, you see, if you weren't sure, are human beings. They're people. They're one of us. They were brought up in our world, and suffered a terrible attack to make them how they are now. And yet we treat them as monsters. The reality is that they're not, by any stretch of the imagination. A werewolf without access to Wolfbane is at worst, a danger only once a month, where they can easily remove themselves from society to have their transformation. With access to Wolfbane, they are no danger to anybody. All these wives' tales about werewolves biting children when they're not transformed are damaging their lives, and our society. And that's why politics is important in this aspect, as politics instigates the change we need to progress.

"Politics is debating the rights of muggleborns in our world, and muggle artefacts. It's about deciding how much is too much, and how little is discriminatory. The muggle world has been a controversial topic in our politics for centuries, and as we allow them to be more and more integrated in our society, the debate becomes increasingly relevant. Many will argue that muggles are human, muggles are equal to us, and therefore should be treated as such, and allowed into our world with their magical children, their culture with them. Plenty dislike this movement, believing that though the culture is not in itself damaging, it can be much like a weed that may at first seem beautiful, yet goes on to strangle the garden's native plants. Some, like myself, argue that there should be  _limits_  on muggle integration; the world wars that have taken place in their communities have proven to us that they are just as dangerous, if not more so, than when we last interacted with them, and their response then was to attempt to burn us, to hang us, to drown us. While we are becoming more lenient, the muggle world is becoming more intolerant, and that is why we should take caution.

"Politics is the rights of Dark and Light magic users. Does Dark magic alone need legal restrictions, or does Light magic also pose a danger to society? Is either one inherently morally wrong, or do we need a balance for the magical community to function?

"These debates are my personal role in politics, and they could be yours too. But it leads us simply onto an element of politics that affects us all; democracy. Democracy is a valued part of the new age of wizarding politics. Magical people crave it, as a desert craves water. We all want a say, and this is something that we must fight for. But by introducing education in politics, we are one step further to a democratic society. Currently, we may only vote for who governs us in special circumstances. But you students, are the embodiment of this movement; you are the future of democracy. And education is essential to effective democracy.

"I urge you to consider these things, and I urge you to excel in your studies for the sake of your community. Thank you for listening."

As Lord Potter stepped back from the podium, he stood tall and proud in the powerful applause. The candles intensified his burning eyes, and almost as if the very flame were being absorbed by his presence, the candle closest to him reached its end and died. The candles at Hogwarts were always aflame, but the Dark Lord's energy seemed to be draining them, as many were much shorter than they would usually become.

Once the students began murmuring to each other, and filing out of the hall, Malfoy muttered:

"Pathetic excuse of a Dark Lord if you ask me."

 _And yet,_ Tom thought,  _not one to be underestimated_.

* * *

The sun lit up a cool blue sky the following morning, and Harry was being treated with a tour of the castle before he returned to his followers. Headmaster Dippet was very enthusiastic about Harry's speech the day before, and was keen to invite him back whenever he fancied it.

"Everybody is welcome at Hogwarts, of course," the man rambled on, with as much energy as he had the previous day. "And you are certainly no exception to this. The building has a warm soul, and it seems to like you here; rather a fan of strong magical cores, I should think. The founders were incredibly gifted, and had a great amount of strength, so its preference no doubt derives from there."

Harry had been shown the grounds, been told a short history of the forest and the lake. He had gotten a view of the admittedly impressive Quidditch grounds. They had explored the dungeons, and struggled through the overbearing enthusiasm of the potions master, Professor Slughorn. Not long before lunch, they were heading towards the more central classrooms.

"So why, exactly," Harry interrupted one of Dippet's digressions, "do the stairs move? It's a wonderful part of the school, but doesn't it make getting to lessons rather confusing for the students?"

"Why yes!" Dippet chuckled happily. "It does indeed; it is terribly good fun watching the First Years get their heads round it in the first few weeks. We all get used to it though, it's merely one of the delightful quirks of Hogwarts."

A momentary silence fell as they approached one of the classroom doors. It was opened ajar, and in it, the two men could see Professor Dumbledore wandering around the room instructing individual Seventh Year students on the transfiguration of a pig into a donkey. The desks had been pushed to line the walls, as it was understandably an incredibly space-consuming task. The Professor was too involved to notice the visitors, so Dippet explained.

"This is a NEWT level Transfiguration class, as I'm sure you can see. They've been working incredibly hard; it's a tough year for the students. Oh! And we have our resident prodigy in this very room. Tom Marvolo Riddle, you see over there, lazily turning that poor animal back and forth into a donkey and a pig." The man chuckled again. "Cocky lad at times, but never without justification. He's set to get Outstanding in all of his subjects. Possibly the best student we've ever had!"

Harry could see why the Headmaster was so enthusiastic, but the man obviously had no affinity for magical auras. Tom Riddle was powerful, that much was true, but it was being carefully controlled. Everything about the boy seemed to be controlled, to Harry, but despite this, there was still a very subtle indication of who he really was. The model student in appearance, Harry was sure, but he could sense a sickly Dark undertone to his magic. Masterfully hidden though. It was very possible that the only teacher in the whole school who may have sensed what Harry could now sense, was Professor Dumbledore; and he had certainly sensed it, if the occasional suspicious glances were anything to go by. A powerful, powerful boy. Harry wondered if he'd be able to recruit him into his followers when he left Hogwarts.


	2. Chapter 2

After a decade, Tom Marvolo Riddle – known now as Voldemort, to any he encountered – decided to return to magical Britain, and to his followers. He had earnt his name, Flight of Death, and had become more powerful than he had ever hoped he could achieve. Ritual upon controlled ritual, and he had become a being higher than the creatures he left behind. Lord Voldemort was immortal, a god among the world of the perishable. He had risen like a phoenix, from the ashes of his childhood, and was now ready to fulfil his destiny, with two horcruxes behind him.

He had gathered his forces, presented himself to the distinguished Knights of Walpurgis, and now they would begin their true quest for change. Already on their list was to get hold of one particular magical artefact - a wrist band - from where it had been hidden in a forest deep in Dorset. It was a cruel item, though not commonly known for its powers in extracting magical abilities, which was what they wanted it for.

Voldemort had taken four of his most competent followers with him for this particular task, and they navigated the twisted trees with their hoods up over their heads. It was silent (perhaps due to the animals sensing the danger that these wizards posed) and pitch black, as the foliage of the trees blocked out any glow that the moon may have provided. Voldemort was able to make his way without the aid of light, and his followers were working to do the same. After nearly an hour, when they were reaching the base of a hill, they stopped at Voldemort's silent command.

It was a quiet sound at first. Comparable to the delicate run of a mouse in the dead of night. But as the source came closer, it became clumsier, more like the stumbling of a fawn without its mother. These people were clearly lost, and as it become apparent, clearly not magical; a dim artificial light was beginning to illuminate a slither of the forest, guiding the muggles endlessly forwards. When the muggles finally realised that they were not alone, they too stopped dead.

The two muggle men were dressed in thick woollen coats and stiff leather boots, and they both looked utterly terrified. One, the shorter, stockier man, had begun to quiver, and Voldemort felt a rush of excitement as he observed the two pitiful beings. Licking his lips quickly, he could practically taste their terror. Just their luck.

"Men, I do urge you to be careful," Voldemort addressed his followers, twitching for the permission to attack. "Muggles are awfully… delicate," he concluded, grinning at the still-frozen men stood before him.

The first man's screams came without warning, and the other looked on in horror as his friend began to writhe around on the floor in pain, before he himself was whimpering, clutching at his neck and pinned against a tree. Voldemort did not outwardly laugh, but inside he felt positively gleeful; he could watch these filthy creatures suffer all night without having to do any of the work, and would get to rid the world of these two pests. The man on the floor began clawing at his face in agony, screaming incoherently about the pain under his skin, whereas the man up in the air was sobbing profusely as his followers cackled in joy. Malfoy had joined forces with Lestrange, both men having a lust for physical pain, as manifested in the writhing man on the floor. Black and Flint, however, sick bastards as they were, had an insatiable desire to watch the emotional suffering of the weak minded; they had been known to reduce their victims to emotionless shells, when they were feeling particularly cruel. Voldemort himself enjoyed the role of spectator; he had full control over his own bloodlust, and was happy merely to watch his followers carry out their perverted fantasies.

Only a few minutes into the torture, however, both muggles were paralysed in their position, and no more screams were heard.

"Do you not care for the Statute of Secrecy?" The voice carried to the wizards with a tone of authority, and Voldemort braced himself for a duel as five dark figures approached.

The strangers had lit their wands, and as soon as they were within sight Voldemort recognised the leader – Lord Harry Potter. Tempted to spit at the man, he refrained himself, and raised his wand in defence.

"What right have  _you_  to interfere in our business here, when our activities are causing no harm but to the creatures at our feet, Lord Potter?" Voldemort retorted, irate that the other Dark Lord had interrupted his followers.

The man's eyes seemed to glint in recognition. "Tom Riddle, if I recall," he stated, and Voldemort felt a sick anger fill his stomach. "You've changed somewhat, I see, from your Hogwarts years."

Lord Potter himself looked largely the same; his eyes held the same intrusive gaze, but his gentle features were highlighted by the glow from his wand tip. He appeared suspicious, but not hostile.

"My name, is Lord Voldemort," he grandly corrected the man, who made no reaction to this revelation, "and you would do well to leave my affairs alone."

"I do not doubt your power, I have no desire for a confrontation. I merely have a concern for these innocent men here. Do you not see that the torture you inflict on muggles brings us closer and closer to being discovered?" Lord Potter argued, yet Voldemort sneered at the man's serious expression.

"Do you not see that killing the things solves that issue? The muggles are invasive weeds, quickly taking over the earth and strangling it for its resources; killing them is doing the world a favour."

"The world, perhaps, may appreciate the favour, but wizarding kind will not be so forgiving when we are found as a result of hundreds of wives reporting their husbands having gone missing, no body to be discovered, due to your actions.  _We_  are in danger if this continues,  _Lord Voldemort_ " Lord Potter addressed him mockingly, and Voldemort felt his anger grow further.

"These rats would've died anyway, they were lost."

"That is not the point; we should not be interfering with muggles at all!"

Voldemort hated the calmness that Lord Potter retained, and he could feel his followers tensing with him. For followers, they were evenly matched, and Voldemort did not want to test the might of Lord Potter just yet; a fight was out of the question. He would have to make a compromise.

"Do with them what you will, then. If you believe that letting them be free would be any better for our safety, then I shall leave you to that without any further conflict. I would like to continue my business here."

"Very well," agreed Lord Potter, an amused grin working its way onto his face. Every muscle in Voldemort's body was tensed in anger by this point; the man was making a mockery of him!

"Is something funny, Lord Potter?" he asked, as civilly as he could.

"Oh no, not at all," the Lord waved him off, though still looking highly amused. "It merely seems to me that you're overly concerned about your followers' impression of you in this circumstance; you don't find me intimidating, do you? I wouldn't worry, if you've found your followers the right way, they should be loyal to you through respect and a belief in your cause, not out of fear." His grin grew wider as Voldemort's eyes darkened.

"You wish to make a fool of me then, Lord Potter?" Voldemort hissed, pure fury coursing through his veins. "I can assure you, I have every capability to prove myself as a considerable threat to you, if that is the game you want to play."

Lord Potter's followers raised their wands in unison, but Potter stopped them.

"I do not wish for conflict, Lord Voldemort, I thought I had already made myself clear on that. I was merely… reassuring you. I can see that our presence here is becoming quickly unwelcome." He turned to his followers. "I'm afraid to say that we have chosen the wrong day to go searching for the item. We may have to find another way around our predicament."

He lifted his wand, and summoned the still-paralysed muggles.

"Good evening, Lord Voldemort," were his last words before they apparated away, and left Voldemort and his Knights alone once again.

_Fucking bastard_ , Voldemort thought.

* * *

Their Norway base was probably Harry's favourite, he thought, as he glanced out of the large window. Though the only practical way of entering was through apparation, it was worth the isolation at the very least for security's sake. The sights weren't half bad either; it was a large house placed in the midst of the Norwegian mountain ranges, and so whilst training they could look upon a most beautiful landscape. To either side were grand mountains, all with an icing top of snow, and at the pit of the valley was a vast, deep blue lake, surrounded by trees. The downside, however, was that it was very distracting, as Harry was currently finding. The interior of the room they were in presently was warm and homely, though sparsely furnished, as many colourful duels were taking place. The wallpaper was a warm brown, and the floor a polished wood. Any furniture featured in the large room was mostly hyper-realistic dummies, to practice more violent spells on, though there were a couple of soft sofas to the sides of the room, in case anybody was in dire need of rest.

"Everyone to the front, please!" Harry called, beckoning his followers around him.

The duels were ended, the dummies were repaired, and the 50 of Harry's followers who had attended this session all stood around attentively.

"As promised, I have revised my studying on extracting the magical power of simple magical creatures. For more powerful and dangerous creatures, a ritual will be needed, and of course a team of experienced wizards to get hold of such animals, but for today we'll look at the spell for smaller creatures. I've managed to acquire some Pogrebins from Russia; Russian demons, and as you can observe, they are about a foot tall, with a grey, furry body, and a smooth round head which rather resembles a stone, for disguise. A Pogrebin can inflict a sense of great despair over its prey if it is able to follow them for long enough, and it is this power that we shall be extracting. We wish to be able to inflict despair on our opponents. The spell is not specific to this creature, the Pogrebin was just convenient for learning it. Any smaller magical creature should work just as well."

Some of the followers began to lean over each other to size up the creatures, that were looking incredibly disgruntled by being sat in a room full of wizards and witches.

"So, observe my actions; I first make the runic symbol Uruz with my wand above the Pogrebin. This is a rune for physical strength and untamed potential, but also for understanding and wisdom. It helps to create an understanding between my human magic and the Pogrebin's magic, and keeps the creature alive during the process; it is a physically taxing experience for the animal. Over this, I then say 'Accipere virtutem' to cast the spell. Obviously, I would not recommend casting the spell wordlessly, unless you have been using it often enough to be familiar with it. The power is then transferred to me, and may be directed elsewhere by casting silently with my wand at the desired target. Do we all understand?" Most of them nodded, and nobody asked any questions, and so Harry felt that they were good to go. "Brilliant. There should be about one Pogrebin between a group of three to four. Have a practice, and if you want to attempt to inflict the power onto somebody in your group, then have to hand a Draught of Peace – permanent emotional harm is not welcome in this building. Do try not to harm the Pogrebins, because they need to be returned to Russia; we don't want to damage the ecosystem."

The group dispersed once more, and Harry roamed the room, offering support to anybody who was struggling. Perhaps it was an odd style of rule, to act much like a teacher, but he felt as if he and his followers were more of a community than anything else. Instructing and supporting others came naturally to him, as did bringing them together and leading. 'Dark Lord' was a title of power and skill, rather than a dictation of how he should be treating his followers. By the end of the session, the vast majority of the attendees had successfully inflicted some level of despair on their colleagues, and Harry was proud of them; it had been a difficult spell to learn, he thought.

That evening, they dined, still in the Norway base, with most of Harry's followers now present. Up towards the end of the main course, they all had been chatting amiably about their lives; the witch Harry was currently in conversation with was talking excitedly about her and her husband's attempts at having a baby, of which she was sure would soon have some success. Harry liked hearing about their lives outside of their political campaigning and the training sessions, and dinners like this were a perfect opportunity for that. It was a pleasant reminder of the people he was working with. Another witch, however, spoke up from across the table.

"Lord Potter, my apologies for interrupting the mood of our dinner, but I believe many of us are curious, and I could not wait any longer to ask; are we intending to do anything about Lord Voldemort? We have all heard of your encounter with him the other day."

The table quickly went quiet, proving her claim to be true; it was clear that many of them had concerns over the dark rival. Harry considered, for a moment, and then spoke.

"I think, Hetty, that you are right to bring up this issue. Obviously, word has spread of our encounter with him and his followers in Dorset. I will not pretend that I do not see him as a threat; though we have not yet seen it, I sense that he has great power, power enough to challenge my own. We do not want to be on the wrong side of him. If he interferes again, he will become a problem even on top of his apparent similarities to Grindelwald in attitude towards muggles. It is impractical, but I think we shall have to focus our efforts more on magical Britain than Europe as a whole, if we are to keep this situation under control. We will continue to fight for the image of dark witches and wizards. I am hoping, however, that we may be able to construct some sort of agreement with him. If he were willing to change a few of his policies, he would be a powerful ally. I would encourage you all to think about how you best feel we should be handling the situation, and if you think that you may be of any assistance, do not hesitate to let me know your thoughts."

There was a murmur of agreement across the table, and most seemed satisfied with the answer; they continued their previous conversations soon after, and the subject was dropped.

* * *

It was almost humorous how the two Dark Lords next encountered each other, surrounded by tall bookshelves and fine sculptures. The Library of Cherpo, in Prague, was a relatively famous source of dark books, so it was unsurprising that Voldemort was paying a visit; what astounded Harry were the chances of them visiting at the same time, and occupying the same large desk. The desk in question was crescent in shape, and a dark mahogany, tucked into one of the many circular alcoves in the large building. They were in a section focusing on herbology, but neither of them would be reading on the subject; it would be foolish to give anybody an indication as to what you were researching in a library like this.

Neither of them had meant to sit on the same table as the other. Harry wasn't even sure who had sat down first, as absorbed in his own work as he was. He had been looking for a ritual that might help him to carry out a rather vague favour for an influential Polish vampire clan. Vampires were very tricky, and rarely asked favours of wizards, so this was an opportunity that he could not let go; because of this rareness, however, they were always very private about what the task would be. They were looking for a wizard who could find what they were looking for in a way that wasn't necessarily obvious at first. But Harry felt like he was on the right track. It was after about an hour of intense note-making when he looked up to the twitching red eyes of Lord Voldemort himself. The man was staring down at his own tome, and Harry noted that it was in German.

"Zuckst du immer, wenn du liest?" ( _Do you always twitch when you're reading?_ ). Harry enquired in a low voice, anxious not to disturb anyone but knowing that Voldemort would hear him.

Voldemort did not look up, but his eye stopped twitching. He appeared to be considering whether he had the patience to answer the older man. Harry held his stare. Under inspection, he noticed the aristocratic definition of Lord Voldemort's cheekbones in the candlelight, and wondered which family this descended from; Riddle was no wizarding name, but perhaps his mother had been from a family of status. It would not have surprised him, as Voldemort certainly seemed to know his way around the British gentry. Harry was almost surprised when Voldemort responded, though not moving from his position over his book.

"Nein, nur wenn ich ein andere Sprache lese" ( _No. Only when reading another language_ ). He murmured in response, though with a slight tone of irritation seeping into his voice. Harry was being tolerated, for now.

"Es ist eine schӧne Sprache" ( _It is a beautiful language_ ). Harry commented, amused by Voldemort's lack of commitment to it, as he interpreted from the stiff way in which he spoke.

Voldemort did not respond to this, but he had not gone back to his reading either. His eye was not back to its twitching yet.

"How many of your school acquaintances know that you're a dark wizard? How many have you spoken to since you've returned to Britain?"

There was another long silence, and the movement of his shoulders seemed to indicate that he had suppressed a sigh.

"None but my followers," he admitted, and Harry felt that he almost sounded human, in contrast to the coldness with which he normally spoke. "The observant suspect."

Harry felt that there was some tragedy in this. He did not feel that anybody should feel the need to hide who they were, especially when they could not help how their magical core developed.

"It is much easier to be openly dark in the rest of Europe, I suppose." Harry responded. He tentatively added "Torturing muggles doesn't help the situation."

From the dark flash that he saw in Voldemort's eyes, he supposed he was lucky that the man left without another word.

* * *

It was cold. No warming charm seemed to make it any more bearable. Harry was wrapped up as much as he could bear, with extra layers around his neck, and he was still bloody freezing. He could  _taste_  the cold, clogging up his mouth and throat. But it was okay; he was cool, he was calm, and he was collected. Nothing would get in the way with this meeting, least of all the weather. He had been preparing for this meeting for months, and it would not go wrong. He stood tall. Composed himself. And made his way toward the camp.

The group of vampires were stood in formation, their leader, Anastazy, at the front. They appeared emotionless, and Harry tried to clear his head from all emotion too, which the numbing cold helped with. Beside Anastazy was a translator, as Harry could tell from the green emblem on the man's arm. Harry approached as close as was acceptable, and bowed low.

"Count Anastazy, I am honoured to be at your service." Harry declared in a smooth, confident tone, and did not rise until the man nodded his head once.

As the man spoke, Harry remained attentive, even if he could not understand fully what was being said. He knew a fair amount of Polish, but the vampire clans had a separate dialect from the human tongue which was undocumented, and so Harry was unable to learn it. The translator then spoke up.

"Good evening, Lord Potter. We welcome you once again to our camp. However, we do not have the time for any further formalities, and do not wish to waste time on either side. It is with regret that we inform you that we are intending to sever ties with you and your associates."

Harry was floored, though he tried not to let it show. He had no idea what he could have done; he had not even been given the opportunity to carry out the task for the clan. Vampires usually stuck very well to these formalities.

"We were sought by another British wizard of dark origins, Lord Potter. He was able to complete our task for us. We therefore have no need for you. Thank you for your time."

After a signal, they all disappeared, and Harry was left to himself. Alone. With his steadily increasing fury. He was suddenly burning in the deep cold, practically shaking. This had been his only chance within his own lifetime to secure an alliance with the vampire clan. He had worked, and worked, and worked for it. The power that he would have gained from such an alliance… All gone. Slipped through his fingers faster than he could feel it there. Because of Lord  _fucking_  Voldemort couldn't learn to share. They had spoken only twice, but Harry felt pure hatred burn through him in this moment.

A deafening crack announced his arrival to his followers, and he stormed to the intelligence room.

"Where the  _fuck_  does Lord Voldemort hide his selfish arse?" Harry seethed, not bothering to sit down.

The group scrambled through their papers, not wanting to anger Harry further. He was rarely cross, and rarer still was a mood like this, but they knew his fury was not directed at them, and they worked quickly for him.

"His main base is in the midlands, my lord, you should find him there. It has no wards around it other than a strong muggle repellent charm."

Another loud crack of thunder, and Harry was storming through the oak doors of Voldemort's base, interrupting the man addressing his followers. The air now crackling around him, Voldemort indicating for them to let him through, and they parted like the Red Sea.

Voldemort remained blasé, sat in a throne-like chair, fiddling absent-mindedly with his wand. "My, my, Lord Potter, what a pleasure to see you here. Not on a little Gryffindor ramble for revenge, are we?"

The man looked far too smug for Harry's liking, and he closed the gap between them, whipped his wand into his hand, and pressed it against Voldemort's neck dangerously.

"I don't know what game you think you're playing, you bastard, but you would do well to leave me out of it," Harry started, his voice low and formidable. "I have been planning my meeting with the vampires for  _months_ , and you know fucking well just how hard it is to even get hold of such an opportunity. It is  _so_  reassuring to know that you've found such  _joy_ in fucking it all up for me."

"You think that pointing a wand at my neck is going to scare me?" Voldemort mocked, mirth dancing in his red eyes. "You should feel lucky that I have allowed you to get close enough to do so!" He laughed, and his followers jeered in support. "As far as I'm concerned, I have the edge over you. The bracelet, and the alliance with the vampires. Both snatched from your loose hand, like taking a sugar quill from a first-year. You should've held tighter."

Harry's grip on his wand tightened, and a quiet growl escaped him.

"Don't you think for one more moment that managing to get ahead a mere twice gives you an edge. Nothing trumps experience, and in that, I am ahead. I helped to defeat the Dark Lord Grindelwald, and you think that you can come along, only a decade after graduating Hogwarts, and find a way over me?" Harry snarled, allowing his own hollow laugh at the man. "If you and I were alone, I could bind you before you blinked. You'd be up in the air, screaming like that muggle you so enjoyed to torture, begging for mercy. If I so wished, I could off you in a fraction of a second, and that would be that.  _If I so wished_. In the future, I would appreciate it if you left my business the fuck alone, and stop interfering, or I  _will_  lose my patience."

A flash in Voldemort's eyes was the only warning Harry had before the man was stood, a strong hand around this throat. Embarrassingly, Voldemort was an inch or so taller than Harry, and so he was having to look up at the man, but they were essentially in equal position. Voldemort, however, had adopted the same warning glower as Harry's.

"You would be a fool to try to kill  _me_ , Lord Potter," Voldemort snarled in response, and they were like two feral dogs in a battle of threats. "I, Lord Voldemort, do not just  _die_  as the rest of you mortals. I, the last remaining heir of Slytherin,  _do not die_!"

It was a grand profession, and he lifted Harry onto his toes as if to emphasise his strength. His eyes glowed, and he then hissed in the tongue of snakes, before letting him go. As he lowered his hand, Harry's attention was drawn to a black ring. It looked like an inconspicuous family ring, but as it brushed against Harry's neck, he felt its draining chill. There was something intensely dark about it.

Having expressed his frustrations by now, Harry turned his back on Voldemort dismissively.

"Get some better wards," Harry bit out, prowling out like the grim. "Twat."

He'd lost his alliance with the vampires irretrievably, but he had gained information. Or perhaps raised more questions. Voldemort was a parselmouth. And that ring… he needed to find out what it was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the language translation is poor, obviously I'm not fluent myself (I actually don't know any language other than English), but if you have any little corrections they would be greatly appreciated and I'll edit them in!
> 
> Edit: I have hopefully corrected the dialogue to be more accurate from a very helpful comment


	3. Chapter 3

Voldemort frowned at his parchment, feeling pressure build up in his head. He was in his office, just past sunset, bent over in a crouch as he wrote, almost humanly vulnerable in his position. Shadows eclipsed most of the far corners of the room, bookshelves clothed in darkness, but the glow of the dying day lit up his desk as he worked. Out of the corner of his eye, he could still see the headline that was causing him a fair bit of grief. "MUGGLE FAMILY FOUND DEAD – TWO BRITISH DARK WIZARDS SUSPECTED". He had  _trusted_  his followers to be discreet. He had  _trusted_  that they had a basic level of competence so as not to be caught in their actions. Apparently, this was asking too much. He did not care in the slightest how many muggles his followers went out to kill – hell, he himself would sometimes indulge when he was feeling particularly stressed – but for the bodies to be  _left_ , and for there to be  _witnesses_ , was just outrageous. Clearly his followers had a lot of learning to do. Unfortunately, the magical authorities had already got to his men, and so he would likely not be seeing them for a long while. He supposed Azkaban was a fair enough punishment for their idiocy.

And there was another problem that was plaguing Voldemort. In rough diagrams, he had been attempting to plan out what Lord Potter wanted, how to work around it, and how to get the best out of it without weakening his authority. It was obvious now that he would not be able to bypass Lord Potter, and he would need to work his way over the obstacle he represented. Fortunately, there was a wealth of documents regarding the man, from records of speeches to news articles, from which he had been able to interpret his goals. The truth was far more complex than what he had studied back at Hogwarts; Lord Potter was completely driven by his emotions, it seemed. While he had base arguments, rooted in the rights of dark wizards and creatures, among other things, he was erratic in his behaviour, and worked entirely with what he had and what the situation called for. Of course, he had his routines of speeches and articles and publicity, but in terms of what he desired… Voldemort could honestly not tell. It was possible that he hadn't any motives other than his political campaigns. This, he supposed, meant that Lord Potter would not make much of a move against his rise if he played his cards right. The only conflict seemed to be over muggles, but he needed more information to be able to gauge his more emotive reactions to this.

What had he wanted with the bracelet back in the forest? It was obvious that he  _had_  wanted it; there was little other reason to be wandering around in that forest (unless you were idiot muggles, apparently). He doubted the man had wanted it for a violent extraction of lycanthropy, considering his preaching of animal respect. Frustratingly, Voldemort didn't actually know any other use for the artefact, loath as he was to admit it. Perhaps some use could be made of it in the opposite way. All magic could be reversed, after all; though he had not considered it, maybe it could replenish the energy of a werewolf, or potentially even other magical creatures. Regardless, it was not something he cared about. The object was in his possession, and for him to use as he saw fit. It was clear that Lord Potter did not care much for it, or else he would have put up more of a fight in the forest. Indeed, it seemed as if he was there merely there to mock him. Voldemort's left hand clenched into a fist.

 _Loyalty through respect, not fear_. Did the man think he was stupid? Of course, many followers join due to genuine belief in the cause, but if there's no fear involved then these people would leave. Is Lord Potter really foolish enough to trust his followers? Trust was never something that Voldemort was naïve enough to fall into, and look where he was; more powerful than any wizard to walk the earth. Half of the other Dark Lord's followers were probably only in it for the chance of a fuck anyway; this was something that Voldemort was certainly familiar with himself, but such juvenile fantasies were quickly beaten out of his followers as soon as they were identified. Lord Potter probably did not have it in him to do such a thing - once he grew grey and old, his following would surely decline.

_Such are the joys of being a young Dark Lord._

Lord Potter was probably equal to him in attractiveness, despite the age difference. They were, in fact, rather similar in appearance, now that Voldemort thought about it. At least, if one looked from a distance. They both had dark hair, though Voldemort's was a deep brown, neatly styled, whereas Lord Potter's was black as death, appearing like it had been combed by the Reaper itself it was so untidy. Both were pale skinned, with perfect complexion; a pair of dolls, with equally piercing stares. Even their eyebrows were of similar shape. Both would likely pass rather well as models, if he did say so himself.

He was shaken out of his thoughts by the knock on his office door.

"Enter," he commanded, setting his quill down by the parchment.

Abraxas entered with a bow.

"My lord, you have a visitor. A Spanish man, named Espina," Abraxas announced, still in bow.

"He may enter."

In walked the Spanish man, who Voldemort found was incredibly attractive, with a rough smile but smart robes.

"Lord Voldemort," he greeted with a bow, the Spanish accent obvious. "I have come here on behalf of Lord Potter."

"Not an apology for his behaviour, I suppose?" he commented, a slight bitterness to his voice.

"I'm afraid not, Lord Voldemort," he said sheepishly. "I am to pass on a personal invitation to you. There will be a European gathering of dark witches and wizards in Italy, in a few weeks. There will be a range of speakers, that including Lord Harry Potter. My Lord wishes for you to attend, as you may find interest in the topics discussed, though there will be limited opportunity for making contacts, as the event is intended to be anonymous. I have here the official card, from which you may find the details for the event and the R.S.P.C.V. My Lord very much hopes to see you there."

The man bowed once again, and Voldemort waved him and Abraxas out of the room. Lord Potter had the nerve and the arrogance to send someone, not to apologise, but to give him an invite to his speech, after he had threatened him with his life, in front of his followers. It was beyond belief. Still, it would be useful for gaining information on the man. He supposed he would attend.

* * *

At five o clock in the morning, the day of the event that  _he_  was supposed to be speaking at, Harry was still bent over several thick tomes, taking a swig from a potion that one of his followers had provided him with to keep him alert. He had academic documents on dark auras, dark artefacts, and three on soul magic. Soul magic was the direction that days and nights of research had taken him; with so little to go off, and having no idea where to start, it had taken up a good portion of his time to work out what this ring of Voldemort's was. The more he had thought about it, the more he had convinced himself that it was important information. Items did not just come with the dementor-like drain that that ring had. Only, once he had relived the memory via pensieve several times, he had concluded that it was not a drain, almost the opposite. The ring had felt full, almost too full. This had helped in his research, and it was not until the last two days of research that he had practically stumbled upon the idea of soul magic.

That led to his current sickening state. Sickening. Harry was absolutely sickened to the stomach as his conclusion. It had taken a while for the fact to sink in. In denial, he had frantically searched for more and more to find any alternate answers. But at five in the morning, he gave up on that vain hope. He now had no doubt in his mind that Lord Voldemort had made a horcrux.

Horror at the pit of his stomach. Voldemort had mutilated his soul for a chance at immortality. The one thing that made people human. Harry felt as if he was going to throw up. Not many people knew about horcruxes, and so Voldemort must have actively sought the information out. He could hear his blood in his ears as it rushed to his brain, dizzying him. He must have been desperate to achieve immortality to have done this. Horcruxes were more than just dark magic. True, soul magic seeped into light and dark, depending on its use, but something as terrible as to shred your very soul… What Voldemort had committed was the blackest of magic. Horcruxes were for powerful fools. Very few had the power to successfully create a horcrux and survive the torture to the soul, and fewer still were deficient enough in common sense to try it; the damage to the soul does not seem terrible, at first, but from what Harry understood, if the owner of the horcrux continues to kill and tear at his soul, even if he still has only one horcrux, the hole will widen and tear over time.

It was with a feeling of numbness that Harry recalled his short visit to the north of Canada. The wind had been sharp and iced, but he had just taken a fresh dose of Pepper-Up Potion, and so physically he was well. It was only once he'd found that old shack… the place reeked of dark magic, or so Harry had thought at the time, inexperienced as he was. Harry would only later understand the difference between dark and black magic. He was curious, wondering if perhaps there was an opportunity to learn something there. That was what his exploration there had been for, but in retrospect it had been a foolish thing to do regardless of who was in there. If he'd been  _really_  unlucky, he may not have lived past that day.

Unlucky he had been, regardless. What he had found there… who he had found there… The man, if he could be called that, had looked about 40, but his features were distorted by the dim candlelight, and Harry could barely see him at first due to the sound of his creaking bones as he crouched inhumanly over scattered piles of parchment. He had been babbling, seemingly unable to form any words, only mindless sounds, and his saliva was frothing just behind his lips, occasionally dripping and splatting onto the parchment. As soon as he heard Harry, however, his head had snapped up, and Harry's temperature had plummeted at the sight of him. He looked as if a hoard of dementors had gotten to him, his eyes a mad abyss. His eyes seemed to absorb Harry's very being for a moment, and then the man spoke.

"Whu're yu?" was the slurred question, a hint of hostility in his tone.

Once Harry had sat him down, calmed him, and managed to get him to talk, he learnt of the true horror of the man's situation. He was no 40-year-old, but a 300-year-old. He had successfully created a horcrux in order to preserve his life and to continue his studies and writings. He had wanted it all to be published at once, to astound the world with his incredible knowledge. But he had never killed before, and suddenly it had intoxicated him with sick pleasure. He continued to kill, and kill, and kill, until he no longer had the sanity and coherence to do so. The tear in his soul grew and grew. Too young to fully comprehend and to sympathise, Harry had left, undoubtedly shaken. That man had not been a man. Immortality, as far as Harry could see, drove men to the brink of insanity. It had been an important lesson; never again would he even joke about such matters.

Voldemort apparently had not had such life lessons. To create a horcrux, of course, he must be incredibly powerful, and Harry would certainly not be underestimating the man any time soon, but he must be truly crazed by this power to actually choose to make one. Not only that, but to wear it out in public! Harry could not even bring himself to comprehend such stupidity. The broken piece of one's soul should be as protected as one's own life – there was no point in it if it was being flaunted. Harry should never have been capable of discovering what it was. He was fortunate for knowing though. Today, today he would have to confront the man. There was no other option. Though getting through to him would be a task in itself. All he had to do was to get through to Voldemort that he should not be wearing his horcrux out in public. That shouldn't be too hard.

 _About as easy as a game of tug of war with a bloody Hippogriff_ , Harry thought to himself.

* * *

The room was stuffed to the brim of witches and wizards, many accompanied by glasses of wine, making their way over to each other and having animated conversations. Voldemort, for his part, felt a little out of his depth, rather unusually, and his guard was up. He had not yet delved into European politics, focusing mostly on finding allies within his own country, and so such an event as this was a little more intimidating than the man cared to admit, especially without his followers to fall back on if needed. But he knew he would not need to; this was an event meant only to be a reprieve from the usual politics and to watch others talk about their work. It would be incredibly useful for him to listen to different ideas and theories, and perhaps even take some of it on board.

In theory, the event was anonymous, but it was impossible to recognise many of the figures present. There were some notable European dark wizards present, and many of Lord Potter's followers were scattered about the room, too. People were recognising him, as well, many throwing him glances as he confidently strode into the room, after the doorman having taken his cloak. He could not tell the feeling behind the glances as well as he would have liked, but it was likely that they were varied in thoughts towards him. Some, with similar ideals, having heard the rumours of his ascension in Britain, may well be looking on in respect. Others, either not truly knowing his significance or not respecting his cause would be looking out of curiosity or derogation. He paid them no mind, however, as he went to take his seat, not wanting to interact with any of the attendees that he could see.

The only other member of the table so far was a woman, to his right, looking perfectly at ease scanning the evening's schedule. She had short dark hair and a dark complexion – the woman was undeniably attractive, though Voldemort had never fully understood the allure of women. As he sat, she raised her head from the schedule and offered a warm smile. Voldemort gave a charming smile in return, and greeted her with a polite "Good evening". At this, she set the schedule down on the table.

"Good evening, Sir." Her voice was kind, and Voldemort could tell that she was the type to make very honest friendships. "My name is Dora. Oach."

"Lord Voldemort," he returned.

"Ah," she smiled, seemingly entertained. "A very grand name. I am sure you have grand power to accompany it. So, do you know Lord Potter well? He does like to associate with grand people such as yourself."

Voldemort was taken aback by the assumption that he was there as an invitation of Lord Potter, though it did occur to him that perhaps this table was exclusively for such guests.

"I confess, I have met him only a few times. He is not a man who I would go out of my way to be in the company of, if I may say so. How is it that you know him?"

He asked out of politeness, but the wistful sigh that Dora started with was the only warning Voldemort had that he would regret having asked.

"He was my lover," she murmured, and Voldemort got the distinct impression that she wished he still was.

"Ah, I see."

"We met at school, in Durmstrang. He was a year above me, and fairly well known for his proficiency in dark magic, and general academic success. Very charming, too. I suspect everyone in the school that liked men liked Harry. I, of course, was no exception. I was completely enamoured by him, and then one day, he caught my eye in the corridor. He told me that I was beautiful, the first words he ever had said to me. From then, we had started talking, seeing each other daily in the library, the food hall, or just walking around the school together. He poured his life story out to me, his ambitions, his grievances, his passions. As for me, I never had much to tell, and so I listened. I was absolutely devoted to him, and for a whole glorious year, I thought that he had been devoted to me. And I think he was. Harry's a good man; he never intended to break my heart. But of course, there were plenty of other women out there other than me, and I don't suppose I made a lasting impression for his dreams of the future."

Voldemort was struggling to keep himself from openly showing his boredom. He had had no idea that a simple question would be interpreted as asking for this woman's life story. But maybe she was merely lonely. None of it was surprising, of course. It fit very well in his image of Lord Potter for him to be a ladies' man, charming them and then dropping them. Voldemort would never understand these people and why they could not seem to stick to their own sex, where there would be more mutual understanding of life experiences.  _A real shame though,_  Voldemort thought to himself.  _He'd look delightful bent over a des_ – that was an unwelcome thought. He turned his attention back to Dora.

"He argued it was for work, you see." Oh, and she was still going. "One day he just said that he couldn't do it. He couldn't continue. I know it wasn't for work though, because very quickly he became very close to a wizard in his own year, and I swear I saw them kissing in a corner of the library not a month after he'd ended it with me."

So, Lord Potter swings both ways, then. Voldemort supposed that that was fair, he should have known. Though it was a terribly dry thought process to be having. He really had drawn the short straw on seating arrangements, and if he found out that somehow Lord Potter had purposely organised this, the man would be facing the full wrath of Lord Voldemort for subjecting him to such a waste of time with such useless information. He should never have come. But he was here now, and it would seem rude to just leave. It would not reflect well on his international image.

He tried very hard not to make much more eye contact with the woman, not wanting to encourage her conversation topic any further. Salazar forbid, at the rate she was going, he wouldn't be surprised if she started talking about the sex life the pair had. Voldemort does not  _do_  dealing with the exes of rivals. He does not do dealing with exes at all. He was hardly a practitioner of counselling, and he was most certainly not going to start with this stranger.

Soon enough, however, he was saved by people beginning to take their seats for the event to properly start. He noted that many of the people on his table were in fact followers of Lord Potter, of which he was not overly surprised. He only hoped that people would not look and think that he was one of them, but he would not be paying much attention to the people around him. Or at least, other than to keep an eye on their behaviour, but he would not be communicating in any way after that last horrid affair. As the first speaker went up to take the podium, Voldemort bade himself to relax for this evening, and took a sip of his wine.

The first speaker was a young, bright eyed and bushy tailed man, who was potentially barely out of school, and surely was the least knowledgeable person in the room. He was clean shaven and had soft round cheeks, making him look rather like a child.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Witches and Wizards, I would like to present to you all today, a presentation on the creation of dark spells. I began my passion for spell creation as a child, since my father was an avid spell creator himself, and knew many runic symbols and their blends. Much of the magic I learnt, in fact, was not as a result of learning specific spells and their incantations, but small spells of my own creation!"

There was some muttering at that, some of the audience looking rather impressed, while some rolled their eyes at the bold declaration.

"Indeed, as was my prowess that I created my first dark curse at the tender age of 13, while practicing on the family's kneazle. My mother wasn't impressed, rigid as she was, but my father was proud. From then on, I put my passions into dark spell creating and I have even written a book on all the spells that I have created so far – 'My First Dark Curse, and other evidence of childhood genius'."

Voldemort felt that the name was lacking somewhat in flow, and general respectability, and it was from great effort on his part that the following sip of his wine was not an exasperated gulp of the alcohol.

"Naturally, when creating a spell, it's important to have passion for it, as I always have done, thanks to my father's encouragement. When creating a dark spell, it's equally important to have malicious intent. Not  _full_ evil, of course, this is dark magic we're creating, not black, but you can't be wishing well because it just doesn't work as well. I mean, unless you're creating dark healing spells, but that's far too complicated to get into tonight."

 _I'm sure we'd find it no harder than I'm sure you did_ , Voldemort thought sardonically.

"But anyway, with my passion for spell creating, and my affinity for dark magic, it means that I can create dark spells with speed and with ease, which is why I've created so many. And they're good ones, too. If you read my book, you'll find in there a spell that twists a person's eyeballs until they pop out; I created that one when I was 16, it was great fun practicing it on the animals –."

It potentially would have been a fascinating talk, if the kid was not so obsessed with his own achievements. He was so up his own arse that Voldemort was surprised that he didn't have faeces dribbling out of his mouth as he spoke. Voldemort felt that it was best to tune out of the talk at this point, as really, he had enough of his own knowledge of spell creation that he really was not going to learn anything from paying attention. Perhaps he would miss out all the details on the speaker's gifted nature, but he was certain that he would not suffer too badly from this gap in his knowledge.

He wondered if Lord Potter was having the time of his life backstage, knowing that the audience had to sit through this ocean of drivel while they waited for the first speaker to finish talking. How long was each talk supposed to last? And of course, most of the people on his table were likely only here to watch Lord Potter speak, they must be out of their minds. Never mind that, Voldemort did not have even that motivation to be at the event, other than politeness, and the vague hope of learning something new. And here he was. Wasting several hours of his precious time at this stupid event when he could be overseeing his own business.

Malfoy had been given the task of befriending the main candidate for replacing the Minister of Magic. Everyone could see that the current Minister was losing his touch, very much on the verge of standing down, and so in the higher circles of British politics and society, there was a battle of who should take his place. To Voldemort, the answer was obvious. Ogden's stance was ambiguous, but he was proficient at gaining political support for any policy. He had also shown sympathy to the dark cause, certainly having a distaste for the likes of Dumbledore, without being obvious in his bias. This meant that he was ideal, and fortunately, the Malfoys already had ties to the Ogden family in politics. While Abraxas's father was still alive, he was quickly on his way out of politics, and Abraxas was doing a fine job of establishing new allegiances and reinforcing old ones that Voldemort wanted in place. It was, after all, beneficial for them to have a Malfoy on their side; a Malfoy allegiance meant access to funds when the time came for political campaigns.

Voldemort was taken out of his musings when a round of applause signalled the end of the talk on dark spell creation, and the introduction of a new speaker. An elderly lady, potentially around the age of 80, approached the podium, ready to address the audience.

"Good evening, fellow dark practitioners," she begun, her voice as frail as her appearance. "Now, we all know that sometimes, to get somebody to agree with us, we may need to resort to the gentle persuasions of dark magic. Indeed, while I do not condone the excessive use of such methods, by any means, I cannot deny, nor can any of you, that knowledge of such practices is incredibly useful. However, rather than the variety of spells that can be used for such a task, many of which have been discussed by the young man speaking before me, I myself am in the habit of developing potions for such a task."

There was real credit due to her, Voldemort felt, that she managed to introduce such a simple topic in three times the time that one might usually be able to. This was perhaps worse than the egotistical boy that came before her. The monotonous drone that was spreading about the room was about as dull as watching a full candle burn down. Fortunately, Voldemort happened to be particularly well informed on this subject, and so he was perfectly happy to tune the second speaker out as well as he had done the first. Instead, he could occupy himself with counting how many of the guests that he could see had monobrows.

Only a couple did on his table, slightly older men who perhaps cared less about their appearance, or naturally grew more hair. Lord Potter was a smart looking man himself, clearly cared a lot about his appearance if one ignored the issue of his hair, so Voldemort was unsurprised to find that most of the people he associated himself with were generally equally as beautiful. Not that there was not a certain amount of charm to a monobrow, he supposed. It could have a sense of strength and authority about it. So, two monobrows so far. He discreetly tilted his head to survey the table directly to his left. On this table he found four more monobrows; one on a stick-thin woman, and the rest on some hefty looking men. As the talk went on, an almost pleasant background sound to his activity, Voldemort continued his counting. Seven, eight, nine… Ten? He wasn't sure whether or not to count that one. Out of the corner of his eye, it looked like there was a gap, but upon closer inspection, there was indeed a thin strip of eyebrow hair connecting the two.  _A monobrow is a monobrow_ , Voldemort concluded, and counted that one. He was not quite sure what had possessed him to undertake such a mindless task, but now that he was doing it, the task had to be completed. At the very least, he was getting a good assessment of the room without being too obvious about it. Fifteen, fourteen… The woman continued to drone on in the background

"Now, what I find best to use for a potion of this kind is Alihotsy leaves, as –."

 _No, no, Alihotsy leaves would be devastating for such a potion, who invited this madwoman?_  Voldemort thought, unimpressed. Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six…

Maybe if Voldemort counted for long enough, he would miss the whole event, and surely that would be a blessing.

…Fifty-four, and fifty-five. Voldemort was quite certain that this was the accurate count of monobrows in the room. He had counted twice, and so there was very little chance of error. By this time, the elderly lady was just finishing her talk, and polite but muted applause bade her farewell. After a moment of her absence, then stepped on Lord Harry Potter.

He was met by a completely raptured applause, many members of his own table even cheering at the arrival of the man, a striking juxtaposition to the last two speakers. In all fairness, he was a captivating sight, and Voldemort was almost taken back to Hogwarts, when he had seen Lord Potter speak for the first time. His eyes were just as magnificent as they were on that day, drawing all the energy and the attention into the room. His attire was equally captivating this time, as he wore deep green trousers that complemented his eyes with a dark grey shirt, and a flowing black cloak that could rival death itself, the way it hung over his shoulders like a storm cloud. He was the very definition of beauty. Voldemort wondered whether there was any involvement of his magic, perhaps bending it to his will to change how he appeared to people.

"Good evening, everybody," he greeted with a charming smile, and the applause begun to die down. "It is wonderful to see you again this year, and I have come once again with a potentially controversial topic!"

There was scattered laughter around the room at this.

"I would like to give a talk today on the treatment of muggles." The rooms was finally silent. "For centuries, it has been debated how to treat muggles from the wizarding community. Indeed, many of us still speak of the witch trials as if they were only the other day, and since then their danger has become only more prominent. The muggles have technology to rival our charms. They have weaponry to rival our curses. They have the sheer numbers to rival any upper hand we have, vast armies of disposable men to threaten us. Nobody but radicals such as Dumbledore would deny the threat that they pose to our way of life. But this is no reason or excuse to hunt them down.

"As many of you are aware, my opposition of the Dark Lord Grindelwald was grounded in his treatment of muggles, leading to the unlikely alliance of Dumbledore and myself. He believed in a world where muggles knew of us and cowered beneath our feet in reverence, as the inferior race. This belief was monumentally misguided. The muggles, as Grindelwald should have been able to tell from the war in their world that paralleled our own, already see themselves as the superior race. The muggles are prideful creatures, just as we are, and would not so easily bow down to us. The muggles, despite what Grindelwald felt, were far more powerful than we sometimes care to admit. The muggles killed 72,468,900 of their own kind in the Second World War. The muggles killed 1,345 of  _us_. Innocent wizards, with the protection of their magic, died due to the advances that muggles have made in their weaponry. This is not a species to view lightly. Grindelwald thought that he could overlook this danger and torture muggles into submission, but this leads to exposure, and exposure leads to many more wizard deaths."

Voldemort frowned at this - of course muggles would eventually turn to submission, it was a given that any being with  _magic_  was superior. Yet, he could not deny that the statistics were disturbing, especially knowing that he could have been one of those wizards to die in the war, stuck in his cursed orphanage over the summers.

"This behaviour reflects badly on our community. After the fall of Grindelwald, numerous laws were introduced worldwide restricting our freedom and power. Most of us can no longer use blood magic, we can no longer practice dark magic in public, some of us can no longer teach in schools! All of this, directly as a result of extremism towards muggles. Every tortured muggle is ammunition for the Light against the Dark.

"Muggle haters flock to the Dark community, because of the extreme liberal views that can be found on the Light, and these people give us a bad name. This behaviour should not be tolerated if we want our community to strengthen, and to return to its former glory. The world's magic is out of balance towards the Light; the Light doesn't believe in this balance, but it's been here since the dawn of time, and an imbalance causes natural devastation. The last time we allowed our magic to become unbalanced, when the greedy of us held excessive power over the Light, it led to the devastating destruction of Pompeii. The Light responded with the slow but steady oppression of Dark magic in return, and soon it will tip the other way. We cannot accept members of the Dark community encouraging this oppression with their extremism."

Voldemort was growing irate with Lord Potter's nonsense, and yet it was so easy to be taken in by the passion in his voice, the sincere concern for the wizarding community, the way his soft lips jumped about with the excitement of their speech. He was simultaneously draining the life out of the room and replacing it with a new life of his own creation.

"I implore you to listen to my message, my warning, for the sake of our community. Safety from muggles, safety from imbalance of magic, falls onto our shoulders. It is our duty to fight extremism, and to fight for our rights with reason and logic – this is a fight that we cannot be stigmatised for. Unite, fight, and reason with the Light, my friends."

As Lord Potter stepped back, the audience regained their own life source, and a furious applause, more reverent even than the first, saw him off the stage. Voldemort, for his part, maintained a polite clap, trying very hard not to show his annoyance. He could not believe the words that fell onto these people's ears like the words of Merlin.  _How could anybody have such adoration for this muggle-loving idiot?_  The adrenaline coursing through his body was enough to distract him from the speakers that took the stage subsequently, and he found himself discreetly brooding over Lord Potter's speech. He had been so taken in by the man's charm! He,  _Lord Voldemort_ , been practically drooling over his every word, internally in as much awe as the rest of the audience had shown externally. And they, of course, had fallen for his propaganda; it was only because of Voldemort's own control of his thoughts and feelings that he could identify it as such, as was therefore immune to the spell that had fallen over the audience. He was infuriated more than anything that he had, in fact, been quite caught up by the speech until it ended. He naturally disagreed with everything that had been said, but his heart had still been held tightly by Lord Potter's voice for those minutes.

Well. He had actually made a few valid points. It was certainly true that something needed to be done about the magical imbalance. Voldemort, of course, had known all about this prior to the speech, but had admittedly not noticed quite how bad it had been getting in recent years. But this, surely, is why more forceful action needed to take place to solve the issue! And muggles still needed to know their place; wizards merely needed to be discreet about their methods, as Voldemort knew he always was, and as Grindelwald had not been. Wizards were too powerful for this academic nonsense to take over the movement, they were too powerful to sit in hiding, biding their time while the muggles grew ever more powerful. The wizarding community needed to be ready to fight for their way of life, and the Dark needed to be ready to lead!

It was infuriating, to Voldemort, that moderates like Potter were taking the stage the whole time, and these wastes of space blabbering on about their research that nobody cared about. Moderates like Potter were not leaders, they just wanted to hide their own physical weakness through flowery language!  _Well,_ Voldemort thought.  _That's probably a bit unfair, Lord Potter is obviously physically powerful too, but the point still stands_. He certainly was more of a speaker than a fighter. Such a status would be completely useless when it came to protect the wizarding world.  _Well_ , a voice interrupted Voldemort's musings once again, in that same annoying tone.  _It certainly would be useful to have a speaker like that to rally the people_.

Such internal arguments spun round and around in Voldemort's head, as he worked tirelessly to conclude. It would not do to not know where he stood on his rival. Before he knew it, the evening was at an end, and Voldemort noted Lord Potter approach the table. The man pulled over a seat, his smile more rugged than the sly, charming expression he had adopted for his speech, and sat casually to greet his friends.

"I'm so pleased that you were all able to make it!" he exclaimed, pouring himself a glass of wine. "I hope you all enjoyed the speakers tonight. I thought there was a good selection, though it could've done with some more political contrast. It was all very academic this year, I found."

"I find myself agreeing with you, my Lord," commented one of his followers. "Though they might have been worried that any other political speech would look a little frail next to yours!"

Lord Potter let out a hearty laugh at that, eyes glimmering with amusement. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, David."

He then scanned the table, his eyes settling just to Voldemort's right, and a slight shift occurred in his expression.

"Dora!" he greeted warmly, his charming smile back in place. "Long time no see, my fair lady. What have you been doing all this time we've been apart?"

"Oh, nothing as exciting as you I'm sure,  _my Lord_ " she murmured in a sultry tone, adding a wink at the end.

Voldemort was ready to throw up just at the way she spoke, especially with her being so close to him, and he was desperately hoping that Lord Potter would be just as uncomfortable and put an end to his suffering immediately. No such luck; the man seemed to live for Voldemort's irritation.

"Oh, now that just  _can't_  be true, Dora darling," Potter purred back at her, leaning forwards in a predatory way. "Not even any affairs to tell of, for such a beautiful woman as yourself?"

Salazar, how revoltingly forward. In front of  _everybody_  on the table. Who was this man?

"I'm afraid not,  _my Lord_ ," and Voldemort nearly threw up just at the way she said those two words. "The others have yet to reach my expectation."

Now, Voldemort was no misogynist. He knew some incredibly powerful women. In fact, he could sense great power from the very woman next to him, but he absolutely could not stand the way she was throwing herself at him, and he could not understand in the slightest how Potter was letting such foul behaviour continue. Fortunately, it seemed that people were starting to take their leave around the room, so Voldemort took one last sip of his wine, and made to stand.

Unfortunately, it seemed that Potter was not done with this slow and terrible torture. He had immediately snapped out of his interaction with Dora as Voldemort stood, and stood with him. Dora, Voldemort noted smugly, looked rather put out by this.

"Lord Voldemort," Potter greeted civilly. "Would you mind speaking with me for a moment? I would greatly appreciate your company, if you would follow me."

"Of course," Voldemort agreed grudgingly, not wanting to seem impolite, and tailed Lord Potter through the crowds and into a separate room, which was empty.

They stood in silence for a moment, assessing each other. Lord Potter had a slight crease worrying his brow, and his eyes were almost sorrowful.

"Do you have me here merely to waste my time?" Voldemort asked, growing impatient.

This seemed to snap Potter back into reality.

"There's no easy way of saying this to you, but I want you to know that I'm confronting you only with the motive of helping you."

Another pause, and Voldemort was growing increasingly irritated. He was being spoken to like a child; as if he needed Potter's help in anything.

"I know you have a horcrux, Lord Voldemort."

A pause. No, silence. No.

The sound of his blood rushing past his ears, assaulting his senses and his mind.

Dread.

Dread.

Horror.

Fear.

Crippling fear taking hold of Voldemort by the neck so tightly he felt like he couldn't breathe, winded, mortally wounded by anxiety.

Dread.

Horror.

Fear.

_Nobody was supposed to know_

Fear.

_Potter could kill me_

Fear.

_Nobody was supposed to know my secret_

_Nobody should ever have known_

Fear.

Fear.

Horror.

 **Rage**.

Desperately clawing at his emotions to keep control of them, in reality it was only a moment for him to suddenly be breathing again. His panic was evident only in the slight change in pitch, and one vital slip…

"How did you know about them?"

 _Them. Them._ He had said  _them_. Voldemort restrained himself from slapping a hand over his mouth.  _Idiot, idiot, IDIOT_.

The fear and rage that Voldemort felt begun to visibly infected Lord Potter, his eyes growing dark and dangerous. While Voldemort prided himself in being able to keep control of his external appearance when he was angered, Lord Potter seemed to be just the opposite.

"Did I fucking hear  _them_?" He snarled, fists clenching at his side. "Do you have any  _fucking_  clue how dangerous that is? How dangerous just  _one_  is?! You're not living forever, you know that, right? You're  _surviving_ forever and having a damn miserable time of it! I cannot  _believe_  you would be  _idiotic_  enough to make two!"

Voldemort bristled at the insults, infuriated at being spoken down on in such a way.

"You cannot talk to me like this," Voldemort bit out. "I don't think you seem to realise how  _dangerous_  I am to you; speak to me with respect and I will respect you in turn! I am a powerful force, Lord Potter, and you do not want to cross me. I have warned you of this already."

"I know you're fucking powerful! You've got multiple fucking horcruxes, of course you're powerful! But you're acting as if this is a game, how can I respect that? There will be  _no rivalry_ , Lord Voldemort, and soul magic is a serious business!" He seemed to lose his steam at this point, but Voldemort was still livid. "Could you at the very least stop wearing the damn thing around, lest anybody else figures it out" Potter muttered darkly, gesturing to the ring on his hand.

"I'll show you power, Lord Potter," Voldemort hissed venomously, already making his way towards the door. "You dare to mess with my affairs... You do not yet know the meaning of the word regret, but you  _will_ ".

And with that, he abandoned Potter, set on splitting his soul once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a much longer chapter than the last two, but I just couldn't work out how to split it, and so I've left it - if I hadn't had the last section in, there wouldn't have been any drama, and what's a Harry/Voldemort fic without drama? Hope you're enjoying it - I do welcome discussion about the fic if you want it! Whether you agree or disagree with me on my characterisation choices, how my personal beliefs have influenced the making of Harry in this fic, my exploration of magical theory, if you've got something you wanna chat about please do!


	4. Chapter 4

A pale, flickering glow was the only light in the circular office. Piles of paper threatened to topple off the desk, but a charm kept them in place. Sat before the desk was a man with a long beard, which was starting to grey, his body expressing the stress of age with its mix of grey and auburn hairs. To his right was a fiery bird, looking sympathetically down at the aging man.

"Whatever am I to do, Fawkes?" asked Dumbledore in a low voice, seeming sincerely concerned.

He received a low chirp in response from the bird.

"News is going around of Tom Riddle's return to Britain. I was half expecting him to return to ask for a job here, but… it seems that I do not know him quite as well as I thought. Politics must be a greater concern to him, now."

Fawkes responded with another chirp, which sounded rather like an agreement.

"We cannot have two Dark Lords in Britain. The dark cannot regain the power that they once had. They are already out slaughtering muggles mercilessly, probably even more than the papers know of… They must continue to be repressed, Fawkes. Lord Potter was one thing; he's certainly a threat, with his smart words and persuasive style. But two? I don't know if I can handle two, Fawkes."

Dumbledore sounded exhausted, and this time Fawkes just looked downwards, morosely. Like the bird felt his same sense of hopelessness.

"I have to get to them early. Nip the movement at the bud. Tom is harming people; the wizarding population won't stand for that. Once they know what he's doing, what the dark is about… There is hope, Fawkes. There is hope for the light."

The bird only nodded.

"This poor, greying beard will have further struggles to live through yet," he commented, and then went to blow out his candle.

* * *

"Merlin's beard have I fucked up, I've fucked up so badly," Harry groaned as he dropped his head onto the tome in front of him.

Lin, his ex-tutor, said nothing in response, merely continuing his own research. Harry had wanted to enlist the help of all his followers for this task, but he knew that Voldemort would be maddened if he found out that Harry had told even his most trusted advisor. A horcrux was an incredibly personal issue, and it was not information that one threw about freely. Harry trusted all of his followers, but he still didn't think it was a good idea for them all to know, lest it spread further, and Harry was responsible for the untimely death of the man. Instead, he had reserved this information for Lin. He went to Lin for everything; he was like the father Harry had never had, and, while he was admittedly getting on a bit, he was still the most knowledgeable in the dark arts that Harry knew of.

"I shouldn't have done it like that, I should have been gentler in my approach. Why do I always do this? Why do I always run into these things headfirst? Merlin and the founders damn me, he's going to make another, I've made it worse, Lin, I've fucked up so badly!"

"Harry, my friend, please try to calm down," the old man soothed. "You will not be successful in your research if you are teetering on the cliff of a panic attack. Just breathe, and work slowly."

Harry followed these instructions, and let his breathing patterns fall even. He had been frantically searching through some of the darkest books that he had in his possession, books that he had travelled to the ends of the Earth to acquire, and Lin had been right; he could barely remember a word of what he'd found so far. Said man was working at a steady pace, taking in any relevant information, and noting it down, overall working much more efficiently than Harry had been.

"Why are you so desperate to save this boy, anyway? What's it to you if he splits his soul? You barely know him."

Harry felt his body tense, but he could not get angry at his ex-tutor.

"He's not a boy, Lin. He's a man. A very powerful man who doesn't know what to do with his power, there's too much of it. He didn't have a tutor like I did, they don't accept the Dark Arts in Hogwarts. This is a man whose power has no direction, and he needs to be saved. He deserves to be saved. I don't want the world to face another Grindelwald, and that's what will happen if I let his soul deteriorate."

Lin was silent for a moment, his lips pursed, and it was obvious that he was not sure how much to say to Harry.

"You're right, he is becoming much like Grindelwald was. But you didn't save Grindelwald. You defeated him, you sided with the light just to defeat him. Tom Riddle is certainly no match for both you and Albus Dumbledore like Grindelwald was, at least not yet. What makes him different? You want to save Voldemort, and there's more reasoning behind it than you're letting yourself believe."

Harry could not stand all this talking. There was a man out there who was who knows how close to making a  _third_  bloody horcrux, at terrible risk of completely destroying his own soul. They simply did not have time to sit around having a nice little chat about why exactly Harry wants to save this man. It should not matter why they were saving him; Harry just wanted it  _done_.

"Nobody should just be left to tear at their soul, Lin. Grindelwald was older, he was lost. Voldemort still has a chance at living. It's tragic what he's doing to himself. It's the highest form of self-torture, and it'd break my heart to let it continue. When I met that man in Canada… it affected me. I don't want that same fate to fall upon Voldemort."

"And I suppose it helps that this man is handsome. I would've thought." Lin commented, making Harry's blood boil further.

"I would have thought that the effect on the  _mind_  was more cause for concern. Just how shallow do you think I am that I would try to stop this happening just for the sake of some eye-candy? I'm more principled than that, and I thought you of all people would understand this."

"He really is your type, Harry. I know if I were in your shoes I'd think it a shame to see such good looks wasted. Do you think he will appreciate your intervention?"

"Shut up," Harry bit out, growing increasingly anxious and maddened by the direction this had taken.

"You can't hide it from me, Harry," Lin continued. "I saw the way you were looking at him from backstage tonight. You were practically fucking him with your eyes!"

"This is not a  _fucking_  joke, Lin!" Harry bellowed, his magic threatening to lash out. "Voldemort could be on his way his mutilate his fucking soul right this minute, and you want to piss about talking about my fancies! I don't fucking care what's motivating me, I just can't stand to let a human to this to himself!"

There was a moment where Harry's words hung, sweating in the now claustrophobic room, for both men to sit with. Harry was done; there was no more to say.

"I never meant to make a joke of the situation. I understand fully the severity, and I too do not want to see this young man ruin his future through blind desire for power. But you must understand what you're doing by choosing to save him. This is no casual act. You are interfering with this man's own business with his soul, you are potentially  _saving_  his soul, and if he understands the extent of what you have done for him, there's no going back from it. It will affect the both of you in ways you may not be prepared for. You need to know why you are doing it, to fully understand the consequences of the action."

"I'm just doing what's right," Harry defended himself. "Good looks have no effect on justice."

"Very well," conceded Lin. "I will endeavour to continue helping you in this task."

* * *

Voldemort was mad. Mad, mad,  _mad_. He was completely fuming, bursting with rage that he could barely keep it in. The rage was infecting his mind, twisting everything he saw into red, red, red. He needed to cool off before he did anything; he was nowhere near thinking straight. He was barely thinking at all, so fuelled by his own instinct to fight. He needed his decisions to be careful and measured; this could not be done when full of adrenaline.

The first place he arrived at was a small village in the north west of England, a muggle area. It was not often that he went into muggle homes to let off steam, but he was not often so filled with adrenaline. Even in his state of reactive behaviour, he would be able to be in and out without leaving a trace. It was late, and so most of them were in bed, and he chose a house at random to enter. Unlocking the door with ease, he made quick work of the adjacent window to make it look as if another muggle had broken in. In fact… muggle methods would be the way to go to truly satisfy his anger. He would not make this kill one for a horcrux – he needed more time to think upon that issue – but it would do for clearing his head. He conjured a long knife, and headed upstairs towards the bedrooms. He found a couple asleep, and put a silencing ward around the room, before getting straight to the act, plunging the knife into the neck of the man taking the life from him immediately. Voldemort could practically taste the soul leaving the pitiful body, breathing it in as if it could be absorbed to make his fractured soul whole again. Alas, it could not. Not that Voldemort would want a muggle soul inside him anyway. To wake the woman up, he gently brushed the blade of his conjured knife against her throat. She woke with a start, and immediately turning to her partner, not yet seeing Voldemort in the darkness. The bloodcurdling scream was music to his ears, and he almost sighed as the scream became louder when he slowly dug the knife into her chest. He banished the knife away, and apparated from their home. Though his bloodlust was lessened, he could still feel his blood pumping unnaturally fast around his body in stress.

He arrived at his headquarters, striding purposefully through the dark building until he reached his training rooms. None of his followers were here at this time, which was overall fortunate for them; they had every right to access this room, but it does not do to stand in the way of a mad Dark Lord. He summoned the dummies, and took a short pause to assume a duelling stance.

After a count, his body snapped into motion. Jumping forward, his wand-arm flew in front of him and he cast a wordless spell at the dummies before him, mercilessly slashing through them again and again. Decapitating them, exploding them, drilling holes into their bodies. He found that it was even more satisfying to visualise each of them as Lord Potter, and he found that this made him more violent in his methods, using exotic dark spells to destroy the inanimate objects, fake blood oozing out of their chests, their eyes, their neck and onto the clean floor. Voldemort was half angry merely that Lord Potter existed; he wished desperately that he did not even need to be slashing away at these dummies in an attempt to get rid of him, and instead had the bliss of the man never having been present in his life at all. But he also wanted the pleasure of testing his mortality, applying the darkest of curses to his fragile body for the inconvenience he had caused Lord Voldemort.

It was a full half hour of angry thoughts endless violence against the innocent figures before Voldemort felt in clear enough mind to stop. He was left stood panting in the room from his physical exertion, drenched in sweat, the blood suddenly draining from his body in an almost dizzying fashion. Once he had been relieved of his anger, he was left with fear. Pure terror.

Somebody knew about his horcruxes.

_I'm not safe, somebody knows_.

He had never considered this possibility. It was such a rarity that anybody even knew about horcruxes, he had thought he was safe. He had thought that nobody would know. But Lord Potter had worked it out. And now he had a choice.

He either had to challenge Lord Potter, defeat him, murder him… Or he had to trust the man not to reveal the key to Voldemort's mortality, or to use the knowledge against him. Neither seemed particularly pleasant options. He was momentarily incensed at himself for not being more careful; he should never have been in this situation.

But not even the simplest of fools would trust a stranger to keep the secret of their soul pieces, it was incredibly sensitive knowledge. Only the most basic of common sense was needed to know that strangers should not be kept alive if they knew about your horcrux. So why was Lord Potter still alive even now? Who knew what he could be doing with the information he had. He could already have told all his followers, even before confronting Voldemort! But this seemed unlikely… If he was not mistaken, he had sensed concern when Potter had spoken to him. But he should still be dead by this point. Why had he not yet killed him?

Probably because Potter was also very powerful. As much as he hated to admit it, Voldemort had no idea how a duel with the man would end. Voldemort was certain that in raw power he had the edge, but in experience he was a few years behind. The floor was uncomfortably even between the two of them, meaning that attempting to kill Potter would undoubtedly be a bad move. And so, he would have to trust. Unless he had something of equal weight against Potter… He could not think of anything. Indeed, he knew very little about the man that was not already accessible to the general public.

For now, he would merely have to keep a sharp eye on the situation, look out for suspicious behaviour from Potter. Such a task would not be hard, Voldemort felt, as Lord Potter lay out his feelings to read like a book. He would know if there was something up.

Meanwhile, he needed another one. He simply could not feel safe leaving it as just two; Potter knew there were two, even knew what one of them was, and there was an ever-present risk that he would find them, even destroy them. If he created a third, that Potter could not prove the existence of, he had another safety net to fall back on. He had been planning to make another at some point regardless; seven was a number of great magical strength, and he felt that this was a fair goal.

He would set about it straight away.

* * *

The cold was one that sent icicles from the tips of Harry's fingers to deep inside of his heart; frost covered the branches of the trees and made the leaves scattered on the floor crunch. It immediately made him shiver, suddenly wishing he had had the foresight to wear more layers. But this was not a natural cold; it was almost certainly magically created, though perhaps not on purpose. He had been right, then, to come looking here to find Voldemort. He had no idea why he would come to the forest where they first properly met to make his third horcrux. Perhaps there was something symbolic in this place. Perhaps Voldemort had wanted Harry to find him here, no matter how unaware he was of such a desire.

The man in question was stood, still as a statue, facing away from Harry. There was no sound other than the crunch of Harry's approach, and still the man had his back exposed.

"You won't be able to stop me, Potter, though by all means do try." His voice was low and cool, a slight frost to it as there was to the air around him. "I still need a murder to set my third step of immortality, and it's an added bonus if I can kill the one to have found out about my horcruxes. You must know that I despise the knowledge of you walking free with that information."

"Lord Voldemort, please, I implore you just to listen," Harry begun his plea. Voldemort still faced the other way.

"You have nothing of importance to say to me," he proclaimed.

"But I do! I understand your feelings, Voldemort. I understand them. But it's not… it's not based on thorough research. You wouldn't be doing this to yourself if you  _knew_ –"

"And what do  _you_  know, Potter?" Voldemort interrupted. "You're not going to spout some rubbish about the soul and the afterlife, are you? Perhaps you believe in the muggle idea of heaven and hell – that would be rich! I am not going to hell; I have already lived through it, and I am stronger from it."

"Voldemort, please. One horcrux is bad enough, and it's not in the way you think it is! The soul is vital to your life  _now_ , the soul is important to your mind. The more you split your soul, the more your mind will deteriorate; you will survive forever but you won't  _live_ , you won't know the world you are in or the person you are. Is it really worth it? If you keep splitting your soul, the tear will grow and grow, and you won't be yourself anymore. I have the research for it  _right here_."

Harry thrust the documents out in front of him desperately. Voldemort did not respond. Harry grew despondent; if Voldemort would not listen to reason, what hope was there?

"Come have a drink with me," Harry offered, completely out of ideas. He had assumed that Voldemort would listen to his research at least, but this had not happened.

"What?" Voldemort turned around finally, and though it was not obvious on his face, it was clear that he was thrown off by the invitation.

"Come have a drink with me. We can talk. About anything, it doesn't have to be horcruxes. I'll swear an oath of secrecy if you join me. If you're going to go through with your third, I'd like to know a bit more about the person the world is losing."

Voldemort raised a brow incredulously at the latter point, but did not seem particularly averse to the idea.

"And you will swear an oath of secrecy."

Harry nodded.

"As you wish. Take me to where you had in mind."

Completely bewildered that this of all things had worked, Harry strode over the Voldemort, took his outstretched arm, and apparated them.

They arrived in his personal quarters, as he did not want to run the risk of coming across any of his followers in the corridors. It would not be an easy situation to explain. Harry quickly found his drinks cabinet, and pulled out a glass for himself, pouring a generous serving of Firewhisky.

"Would you like some, or would a weaker drink be more to your taste?" Harry asked, taking a gulp of the spirit, sighing lightly as it warmed his body.

"Just a glass of wine will do, thank you," Voldemort requested, observing Harry with a sharp eye.

"As you wish," Harry conceded. "White, red, rosé?"

"White."

Harry retrieved a Sicilian glass from the cabinet, and filled it with a cool white wine.

"Only the best," he claimed passing the glass to Voldemort. "Crafted by Italian elves. They're treated a lot better over in Italy, so they've had more time to work on their crafts. They're famed for their wine."

"Indeed," Voldemort hummed.

"Please, please, do take a seat," Harry gestured, and sat down himself, taking another gulp of his drink. "I swear, I've only just met you and you've taken a good ten years off my life," he laughed.

Voldemort did not comment, only taking a sip of his own wine. The man was the image of elegance, Harry felt, poised on his seat, hair styled into neat waves, taking only gentle sips of his wine. Harry could only dream of having such class.

"Certainly warmer in here than that damn forest. I'll be having nightmares about that place if I'm made to go there one more time."

"Nobody made you go either time," Voldemort pointed out, looking only minutely irritated. Harry just laughed.

"Yes, I suppose that's true. And yet here we are."

There was a short silence, in which Harry managed to finish his drink. He only just convinced himself to wait until Voldemort was finished with his own before pouring himself another. He was rarely in an awkward social situation, though he supposed taking a drink with the man he had confronted a few hours earlier about having a horcrux would not be easy.

"I can imagine it's frustrating," Harry broke the silence again, leaning forwards slightly. "But you really do appear to have missed out on some fascinating research."

Voldemort's gaze darkened, but Harry went on all the same, more confident now that he had got the man with him, getting out one of his pieces of parchment.

"If you look at this one – Arthur Seaborn, a Dark wizard from Australia. It took me a full decade for me to get hold of his book, and I've barely read it! But he actually experimented on people's souls to see what would happen. It was absolutely immoral, but the findings are magnificent. Just look at these charts!"

He pushed the parchment forwards towards Voldemort, and watched as the man skimmed over the research. There was not much change in his expression other than the slight purse of his lips, which Harry took to mean that he had not considered this research before.

"And there's more research, from a Persian witch by the name of Turan, that develops these ideas further! Obviously, there's very little on horcruxes themselves, but it looks like there's a whole lot on souls if you know where to look and who to bribe."

Harry pushed forwards a new piece of parchment, and watched Voldemort scan over this, too. He was pleased to have been able to get the man to sit and consider his point from an academic perspective. In retrospect, Harry probably should have expected hostility from the start; he had likely terrified the man with the way he confronted him, and terrified men do not think logically.

"You should not have interfered," Voldemort finally spoke, looking up at Harry. His eyes were shockingly clear and without emotion.  _Beautiful though_ , Harry thought.

"I couldn't not," Harry protested.

"You should not have. It appears you may have saved a part of my soul. Surely, with all your research, you must have some idea of what that means." Voldemort looked like he might be sick at the admission that Harry had saved him, but Harry was filled with relief knowing that Voldemort would not be creating another horcrux.

"I guess I have a vague idea, though I wasn't really paying much attention to anything not directly related," Harry admitted, sheepishly.

"Merlin, I thought you were intelligent" Voldemort muttered, thankfully seeming far less hostile with the opportunity to show a superiority of knowledge. "There is likely now a loose connection between our souls. Soul magic is incredibly complex, and so it's hard to say, but we ought to keep in fairly regular contact, in case one of us notices any adverse effects; this may sometimes happen in the case of connections between souls that are not compatible."

"Ah."

Perhaps Harry should have paid more attention to Lin when he was discussing the consequences of his actions. He would not have changed his mind on the situation, obviously, but it may have been wise to go into it knowing what could potentially have happened to his own soul, by saving Voldemort's. He had been too caught up in the act of saving to really consider it, running on adrenaline rather than his mind.

There was a silence, where Voldemort sipped at his wine, and Harry contemplated his situation. He supposed he did not mind terribly meeting up with Voldemort occasionally. He had supposed that they would do so, already having seen the man far more frequently than he had anticipated after the first introduction. He could even work on getting him to feel differently about the treatment of muggles, and that certainly would be a success. It would bring difficulties, though. Voldemort, obviously, still saw them as rivals, but that image would be compromised for him by them meeting on amiable terms. Harry would have to manage the interactions carefully. He would also need to work out how to keep his followers informed on the interactions. It certainly was not a partnership, and he still wanted to keep an eye on Voldemort's behaviour, lest it interfered with his own activity, but he certainly did not want to lie about the situation either.

"Would you like another drink?" Harry offered, a moment after Voldemort had finished his glass.

"That would be nice."

Harry busied himself with pouring the drinks, grateful for an excuse to get himself another firewhiskey. As he sat back down, there was another moment of silence.

"Did you like the speeches?" Harry broke the silence once again. "I thought that there were quite some interesting speakers, it was a pleasant evening."

There was a pause before Voldemort answered, the words seeming carefully chosen.

"There was certainly a wealth of knowledge."

"There really was, I had no idea that you could use human blood for healing; that one really got me!"

Voldemort made a small hum of agreement, but otherwise stayed silent. Harry was beginning to become uncomfortable with the silence, determined for there to be some form of conversation now that he had brought Voldemort to have drinks and to talk, this feeling certainly not dimmed by the alcohol.

"I really am sorry, I am," Harry said, leaning forward on his chair slightly. "I shouldn't have confronted you the way that I did. It was wrong of me. I just- I can get quite carried away, you know? Well, obviously you do know. I found out and I panicked, and perhaps I should have thought it through a bit more, but to be really honest with you I was really very tired at the time." He laughed nervously, still getting no reaction from Voldemort. "I've learnt to be quite an open person, at least to the people around me, and I sometimes forget that certain things need keeping to oneself for a while, to gauge the situation. I'm sure you're a lot better with such things. But maybe… maybe if you are to trust me with the knowledge of your horcruxes, maybe you might want to know a bit about me. I can tell you stuff about myself. I know it's probably foolish, you could very well use it against me, but, well,  _I_ could use my knowledge of your horcruxes against  _you_ , and maybe you'll feel better knowing that there's stuff you can use against me if it comes to it. Obviously I never will, but sometimes people like to have something to prevent such things happening."

Harry stopped, catching his breath slightly. Maybe he should have restrained himself on the alcohol front; he got far too talkative when he was under the influence. Voldemort, poised as he was, was just managing to prevent a sigh from escaping him from what Harry could tell.

"I want to know about your childhood," Voldemort spoke finally. He stared at Harry with disinterested eyes, but Harry knew that such a topic would be of great value to Voldemort; there was much mystery around Harry's experiences with his muggle parents, himself only revealing minute details into the public. Knowledge of another's childhood, especially a traumatic one, was powerful.

"The good or the bad?" Harry asked, bracing himself for the story either way.

"You lived with muggle relatives for a large portion of your childhood, did you not? I am not expecting there to have been much good involved."

"You're willing to hear a sob story, then?"

"I want the reality. Sob story or not, I expect it to be well told and I expect it to be interesting; if I'm here listening to your story, it may as well be somewhat entertaining."

"I see," Harry nodded, and then thought back.

Voldemort sat back in his chair.

"The first memory I have is of an inconsequential moment. I was about four years old, and there is every possibility that this one memory is informed by many days, many weeks, many years of the same experience. But the memory which I can see most vividly is one from the age of four.

"I feel it worth noting that I had tried for many years of my life to keep from my friends the small fact that, for the first decade of my life once my parents had died, I lived in a cupboard. I had felt ashamed that this was my past, felt that nobody needed to know because it was no longer reality, but by keeping it from those closest to me, I was keeping myself in that cupboard. Not all prisons are physical, you see, and this one I carried with me, held up by every lie I told about my childhood.

"But this first memory I have, was in that cupboard. Every memory I have of that time is lit by the flickering lamp that hung just above the pillow of my bed. All of it is shrouded in darkness and cobwebs. This one especially, it being in that very space. I remember being curled up under my blanket, in my cupboard, a scrappy teddy as my only company, and I remember crying. Not sobbing, as such, though I suspect I wanted to. I remember feeling that I couldn't sob, for fear of being told off for being too loud. I think I must have been in that situation many times in early childhood, before I learnt how to internalise it all."

Harry took a moment for himself, astounded at how raw the feelings still were when he delved into his past. He still felt resentment for his carers, and he still felt the ghost of his fear towards them. He was more powerful than them now, however. He no longer needed to fear them.

"The issue was that with my aunt and uncle, they just didn't want me. They had their own son, my age, who they adored and wanted to put all of their time into, and I was the son of my aunt's detested sister. For a long time, they had convinced me that my parents were killed by their own mistakes, having drunk too much one night. They had convinced me that magic wasn't real.

"Only a  _freak_  believed in magic."

Harry felt an uncomfortable chill at his own use of the word; there was something harsh and cold about it that made him feel like he was a child again, being looked down over his aunt's long nose. He noted a twitch in Voldemort's eyes that looked eerily similar to how he had felt momentarily, and wondered whether Voldemort and he had any shared experiences with the word.

"Freak did the dishes, freak tidied the garden, freak worked sometimes until his hands were blistered. But one thing that freak never did was  _enough_." Harry gave a humourless laugh. "Freak barely even knew his own name. On top of that, I was bullied mercilessly by my cousin and his friends. I'm sure you know how children can be, and it's worse when such behaviour is actively encouraged by their parents."

Voldemort nodded lightly, but did not interrupt the narrative.

"Going to school was better. Wizarding school, that is. Soon enough everybody, teachers and students alike, adored me. I'm sure you know what that's like; I remember the way that Dippet spoke of you when I visited the school. And I adored everybody in return. It felt like home, and it felt like family. There was one person, however, who I adored far above the rest."

Harry stopped abruptly, eyes falling on Voldemort's empty glass.

"Would you like another drink?"

"I'm quite alright, thank you," Voldemort declined.

"Right, just me then," Harry said as he got up to fill his glass.

Voldemort watched him with a sharp gaze until Harry sat back down, resisting to urge to throw it back down his throat once again.

"This one person, then," Voldemort prompted, "I take it brought you some pain?"

"Expertly observed," Harry praised, raising his glass lightly. "This man was the first man who I ever loved. I was fourteen when I met him, and we became lovers a year later. I loved all of my friends, of course, but I had never known such love as this. My love for him controlled me. As much as I hate to say it, perhaps it is a good thing that it ended.

"I would have done anything for him, really. I'm sure there's much more to say about this latter part of my childhood, my time in school, but I don't remember it; all I remember is him. He brought me such great joy, such happiness and contentedness that I never needed to remember anything else. He made me feel complete. But it wasn't to last. At home over the summer my uncle discovered letters that had gone between me and him. I'm sure you must be aware that homosexual activity, as the muggles call it, is illegal in most muggle countries, and my uncle was repulsed. He was more than repulsed. He beat me unconscious for my relationship, horrified to have me in his home. It might have destroyed me but for my love for this boy, back at school. And yet, my love was not enough to save the relationship."

Harry took a breath, and swallowed as much of the dark liquid in his glass as he could. It had been decades since, but retelling it to Voldemort like this… Harry felt the pain and the heartbreak as fresh as he had on the day it happened. Yet he still tried to keep a cool expression for his story.

"When I returned to Durmstrang, I heard news of his death. The pain of it was far stronger than my love for him had ever been. For a week or so, I was severely depressed. And then I attempted suicide. Very few people know that it happened. It was kept very secretive; the turmoil of the mind has never been very well respected in the wizarding community, and anybody who did know felt that people may lose their respect for me if they knew, and so I was convinced to keep yet another secret. But my mentor, Lin, he got me out of it. It was tough, but I was able to swim to the surface against the currents. Since then I have never feared death, and despite it I have never feared love. The love from my friends got me out of the depression, despite it having been caused by love in the first place."

There was a slight frown gracing Voldemort's features, and Harry greatly suspected that it was from the sentimentality of his story.

"From then on I became all the more devoted to my studies. I never went back to my muggle family, although I wasn't yet of age. I stayed with friends over the subsequent summers, friends who started to become very trusted followers. The reality of the war was kicking in, and we all had a youthful desire to fight. I hadn't wanted to lead at the time, but it seems that it is my destiny to do so. It happened almost by accident, the way people rallied behind me, and so my childhood stopped being a childhood. I had to push all the trauma to the back of my mind once again in favour of fighting for what I believed in."

"I confess myself unable to understand why you are able to trust so easily, Lord Potter, with a background such as yours" Voldemort admitted, eyeing Harry carefully.

"Trust is all I have!" Harry laughed, taking the last sip of his drink. "If I do not trust my followers, if I do not trust my friends, if I do not trust anybody who comes by me, then I will be wasting so much of my life in paranoia and overthinking and isolation than it will not have been a life at all. I want to  _live_ , and I'm surprised that you don't too, what with you set for a lot more of it than I am."

"For all of your power, Lord Potter," Voldemort commented, "you really are quite foolish."

"If you insist," Harry said, resigned.

Another silence had the two men alone with their thoughts once again. Harry was still incredibly relieved that Voldemort would not be creating any more horcruxes. And Lin had been right; it truly would have been a waste of good looks. Voldemort had appeared regal as ever at first, but upon closer inspection he was in fact relatively dishevelled by his standards, perhaps from the stress that Harry had brought unto him. Yet his appearance was still as pleasing as ever, looking to all the world a god upon earth, in all honestly. The way he held himself was proud, but not pompous, and there was a wisdom in his deep red eyes that defied his youth and occasional stupidity. His hair looked almost  _more_  enticing when not neatly styled as it was usually, and Harry wondered mildly if the man was the type to lose his pristine image in the bedroom, because that certainly would heat things up.

Not that Harry should have been wondering such things, certainly not while in the company of the man, a man who would most certainly be able to read such thoughts from any eye contact. That would not be the best of ways to end the night, effectively reversing the tentative steps of alliance that Harry had been subtly forming.

"Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Potter," Voldemort broke the silence formally. "I am going to take my leave, if you do not mind me doing so."

"Of course, of course!" Harry jumped up, ready to see him off. "Thank you, really, for your company. I'm glad that you were willing to come and sit with me."

Voldemort merely nodded as he stood himself. They walked in silence to the apparation area at the entrance of the manor, and bade a quiet farewell before Voldemort apparated away, leaving Harry alone.

_What a fucking day this has been_  Harry thought to himself as he made his way back to his quarters, considering passing by the potions cabinet for a dreamless sleep draught.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it - let me know your predictions, your thoughts on Dumbledore, and discussion points on my charactersisation!


	5. Chapter 5

A few weeks had passed since the incident, and Harry was feeling a lot more in control of the political situation. He had been working hard with his followers, particularly in Britain, to help overturn a bill that was being proposed by Dumbledore which involved the restriction of libraries holding books for Dark magic. The Wizengamot was very divided over the issue, as it often was these days. Many feared Dark magic and were concerned with the rise of Dark, and so supported the bill, but also many moderates and some Lights were arguing for the rights to possess such books, that often have been in family libraries for centuries. It was a tricky political battle, but they were making sure progress to win over some of the moderates.

A short meeting was being held the morning before the annual Ministry Ball, to assign small tasks for the evening and to establish where they stood as a group. The attendees were sat in a lounge area, being served tea and coffee to keep them awake and alert, all facing Harry as he sat for a moment with his drink, contemplating.

"I want you split into your divisions, I think" he finally announced, looking for the approval of his followers. "Of course, first and foremost I do want you all to have an enjoyable time this evening; it is a well-earned down time, and I most certainly do not want you feeling that you have to work all night. It is easier, then, if we split the responsibility. Small groups only should send small messages to other small groups who will be present at the ball. The falcon division, Matté do we have your attention?"

"Yes, my Lord," responded the man with a small bow of the head.

"Good, good. The falcon division, being best associated with European politics, will continue to encourage the idea of a united fight for a united magic. There are many Light supremacists still around in Europe and I want you to focus on changing that, and removing sympathy towards those groups."

"Understood, my Lord."

"Do we have Mayberry of the panther division?" Harry asked into the room once again.

"Here, my Lord," the woman responded.

"Your focus is to be again on public opinion, make your ties with public sector workers. They're having a rough time themselves by the hands of the Wizengamot, with wage cuts in favour of putting the money into bribing the goblins. He wants them to put up with the rules that the Minister is setting out for them in the coming years, and so the public sector is once again an ignored victim. Use this against them, talk about how much we respect public sector workers, and how disappointed we are that we even have to bribe the goblins, and how the use of bribery must be an indication of how unfair the rules for the goblins are going to be. Quickly revise your knowledge of the different jobs within the sector, and tackle the importance of what they work on specifically. If we play it well, we can get quite a bit of support from the moderates who just want a better wage for themselves."

"Yes, my lord," Mayberry bowed her head.

"The viper division, Lin?"

"Ready to receive instruction, my Lord," Harry's ex-tutor responded, a hint of mirth in his eyes from the formalities.

"You know what you have to do. Your people will be specifically tackling Dumbledore's bill and finding out just  _why_  people support it, and contradict their beliefs if necessary."

"Yes, my Lord."

"And we must all remember where we stand as an organisation. In the subject of Voldemort, I ask that you avoid this topic with the guests of the ball, as it is a tricky line to tread, but if unavoidable we will not openly oppose him, nor will we openly accept his methods. Our main priorities are the rights of dark creatures and dark wizards alike, around the globe, and fighting for the equality and balance of magic. We are opposed to the dominance of light, and opposed to the totalitarianism of some dark leaders globally. We want isolation from muggles in order to protect our own, and we want respect for all living beings.

"Are there any objections, my friends?" Harry finally called out, signalling the end of the meeting.

"A united fight for a united magic!" his followers called back to him.

Good. They would all have the rest of the day now to prepare for the ball itself.

* * *

The room was wide and professional. While there were a couple of people dancing by the musicians, most of the present attendees were roaming the room and finding others of interest to speak to. Hanging from the tall ceiling were rectangular Ministry banners, and this made up the decoration, for the most part. As Harry strode into the room, many of the scattered guests acknowledged him with a nod, some of his followers also already present.

While his followers had the task of schmoozing the less imposing guests, Harry had goals of higher prestige. He was planning to win over the higher government officials, and potentially attack the Light themselves. Many of his own followers would be affected if the bill on possession of dark books was allowed to pass, and he certainly did not want his organisation to be associated with illegal activities from it. He had a personal obligation to block it from being passed.

Balls were largely considered to be tedious affairs once one was integrated in the world of politics. As a younger man, Harry had attended a couple of balls, and thoroughly enjoyed the dancing and the socialising with his friends. As an adult, however, he did not have the time to dance as much as he would have liked to. He had instructed his followers to have an enjoyable time, but he himself had very little time off his work. There was too much for him to be doing, and while his followers needed time to rest, he was happy to make his work his life. And so tonight, he would be dealing with the arduous task of conversing with pompous politicians, while trying not to let his brain dry out from boredom.

He caught the eye of Lord Malfoy, and headed towards the man.

"Lord Potter," Malfoy greeted with a handshake. "You are looking rather dashing this evening."

"You flatter me, Lord Malfoy, I look the same as I would usually," Harry responded with a charming smile. "Have you been well?"

Harry knew Lord Malfoy well from his political exploits, as the man often sided with Harry against Dumbledore. He had obvious Dark sympathies, and Harry had been trying to convince him to join his own organisation. The late Lord Malfoy had been more moderate, but his son, Abraxas, was already establishing his own political footprint. With the return of Voldemort, however, Harry strongly suspected that Malfoy's allegiances were strongly towards the other Dark Lord. He had no way of confirming it, as Voldemort's followers had been wearing masks every time he had seen them, but Lord Malfoy had been in the same Hogwarts year as Lord Voldemort, and so it was unlikely that the two would have avoided each other.

With his targets in mind, Harry made his way around the room talking with a variety of politicians, putting all of his effort into subtly swaying their views. He had had much success, many of the moderate Lights quickly wishing to defend liberty, as Harry explained how authoritarian it would be to censor an adult's personal education in the form of banned books. Politicians who had had muggle upbringings were especially on board with this idea, as it had been far more common in muggle history to see the control of a nation through censorship of publications and press, and they certainly did not want to see the same happen in the wizarding world. Dumbledore would have no chance with both the Dark and the Light fighting against him.

"I never thought that I would be agreeing so strongly with a Dark Lord such as yourself, Lord Potter" one of the lighter politicians laughed as they concluded their discussion.

"And you see that's the ridiculous thing, isn't it?" Harry pushed, pleased with his success with such a staunch Light supporter. "In British politics, there's such a divide between the Dark and the Light, when really we want many of the same things. I certainly only argue for the rights of my people, in the same way that you would want to fight for the rights of yours if you had any less freedom than you have. Magic, as an entity, is one with both Light and Dark, and so we really ought to be bringing this into our politics."

"Lord Potter," a familiar elderly voice greeted, as Dumbledore approached the pair, the Minister of Magic by his side. "I do hope you're not trying to turn one of my own against me?" He joked, the twinkle present in his eyes.

"Ah, Dumbledore, I would never dare do such a thing!" Harry laughed as he turned to greet both men. "But you and I both know, there is no honour in politics."

"You would make a good politician, Lord Potter," the Minister commented. "It always astounds me how you choose not to pursue a professional career in it."

"I truly am flattered, Minister, but I am a politician in my own sense. I find it far more effective to not be bound by party beliefs, and having to spend hours on subjects that I do not care for, such as  _economics_." He pulled a face. "I am content to spend my days focusing on fighting for what I believe in. Political activism is far more entertaining for me."

"I must confess I am glad that you have such feelings," laughed Dumbledore. "I am having a hard-enough time with your fiery opposition to my current bill; I don't know if my greying beard could handle such aggression on a daily basis."

"The aggression, though, surely is because of me fighting very specific battles, and thus is  _more_  damaging to the colour of your beard."

"Indeed, indeed, you may be right," the greying man conceded. "On the topic of such matters, Lord Potter, I would appreciate it if we could make use of the private rooms available. I would like to have a good discussion over the issue of my bill, if you please."

"A grand idea; I beg your pardon" he said by means of farewell to the other two men in his company, and grabbed himself a champagne as he followed Dumbledore outside of the main ballroom.

They entered a small chamber, much like the one he had pulled Lord Voldemort into, with a plain fireplace and two comfortable looking armchairs. Harry and Dumbledore both sat down, and Harry took a sip of his champagne. He would let the older man speak first, seeing as he was the one to invite Harry in here.

"Lord Potter," Dumbledore started.

"Do call me Harry," he quickly interrupted. "We are already well acquainted, after all."

"Indeed," agreed Dumbeldore, "then you must call me Albus. Harry, you're a good man. I know you are, for the way you fought in the last wizarding war. I would not have allied myself with you if I did not see any good in you."

Harry nodded, urging the man to continue.

"It is with this in mind, Harry, that I plead with you to reconsider your opposition to my bill. I wholeheartedly believe that if this bill passes, the whole of wizarding Britain will be safer, including your own dark wizards. Surely you can see how possession of dark texts is putting lives at risk?"

"Actually, Albus," Harry contradicted calmly, "I am afraid I do not see your way of thinking on this matter. I fail to understand how censorship based on a prejudice does any good to any member of society."

Dumbledore frowned at this response. "Some of the Dark magic in these books are a threat to humanity itself, Harry. Rituals to torture, curses to mentally impair the strongest of minds, calling upon the most unstable of forces for greed and a hunger for power… these are not books that we should be allowing in the homes of average witches and wizards."

"But I fail to see how you would police this, Albus. The aurors are already strained from the recent cuts that have been made to their force, and you want to waste their time on, what, raiding innocent people's homes?"

"They are not innocent people, though, are they Harry?"

"They are innocent until proven guilty! Some of these books have been with families for centuries, it's a part of their history, of  _our_  history. Innocent people could be penalised for keeping hold of a book that they do not even recognise as Dark, just because their ancestors held it and passed it down. Which families are going to be affected by these raids? They're going to disproportionately hit traditionally Dark families who may well have no Dark artefacts or books in their home, just because of some blind fear towards an affinity that they cannot help. Do you not see how oppressive this bill is, Albus? Do you not fight for the oppressed, or is that only the oppressed who have your approval, the muggles and their magical relatives?"

"Dark wizards are hardly oppressed, Harry," Dumbledore responded almost as a scold. "They are powerful, far too powerful, and will hurt anybody who comes in their way, just as Grindelwald did."

"I don't know who you think you're trying to convince, Albus.  _I_  am a dark wizard, I'm a Dark  _Lord_  for Merlin's sake! It is my  _responsibility_  by the laws of magic to protect the witches and wizards under me, and this bill is a direct threat to their freedoms."

"You do not have to be Dark, Harry. Please, if you would only see the Light and you would understand that Dark magic is for twisted souls, for selfish and greedy men, that you are not. You are a good man, and you belong on the Light. You do not have to fight me."

"I confess myself disappointed in your arguments. I do have to be Dark, it is one of the rules of magic that one's magical affinity cannot be influenced or shaped. It is merely a different style of magic to what you're used to, and that scares you, especially with your experiences with Grindelwald, but I would have hoped that you were intelligent enough to see past that. All of your ideals are fuelled by misguided prejudice. I will not be backing down from my opposition to your bill."

"That is indeed a great shame," Dumbledore professed. "Still, it must be difficult now facing a competitor in the status of Dark Lord. I have noted that Lord Voldemort, or Tom Riddle as I still prefer to call him, has made his return to British society, only recently acknowledging himself as a Dark Lord to the public. I suspect there are only a few who will connect the two names together, however."

"He is a strong man, I have become acquainted with him. I actually think it a great relief to have another Lord to take some of the responsibility for Dark magic in Britain. Although," Harry joked, "he is of course quite new to the job."

"And so you condone his treatment of muggles? Unless you have not heard of it, these past months?" Dumbledore pressed, and Harry could tell that he had suddenly become quite concerned at Harry's apparently nonplussed attitude towards Voldemort. Perhaps he had expected a battle for dominance which would weaken the Dark.

Well, battle of dominance though it may be at times, it would far from weaken the cause.

"Albus, please, you know very well my stance on the treatment of muggles," chided Harry.

"My apologies, Harry, if I caused any offense. Of course, I am aware of your stance. But still, you must know that you will struggle to get Lord Voldemort to make a compromise on the issue," Dumbledore spoke slyly, urging Harry's curiosity to work with him.

"Is that so?" Harry responded evenly. "You know that I am famed for my power of persuasion, do you not?" he then teased.

"Voldemort's is a grudge that no length of fancy words will budge," Dumbledore assured. "You see, he was orphaned as a baby. He grew up in a muggle orphanage in London, and I suspect the children bullied him terribly. This poisoned his outlook and tolerance; he became cruel in response to them. Voldemort's direction is no more about political power than it is the natural desperation for revenge of a truly damaged child. I doubt it would take much to break him, with such built up hatred."

Harry sat stunned for a moment. Not at the information; he had suspected as much from the small flinch he had seen at the word 'freak'. This was clearly a very personal part of Voldemort's past, an element which very few knew of, perhaps only Voldemort and Dumbledore themselves knew of, and Dumbledore tossed the information to somebody who was, at least as far as Dumbledore knew, a near stranger to Voldemort.

"Albus, this is hardly professional. It is not your place to be revealing the secrets of another's past. That really is below the belt," Harry murmured, almost dangerously, though he knew that Dumbledore would not take the threat seriously.

"Well, what is it that you said?" Dumbledore paused a moment. "There is no honour in politics."

He merely smiled benignly as Harry sat, for once, speechless.

"Anyway, I fear we have reached an impasse. I see that you are quite intent on continuing your opposition to my bill, as much as I am disappointed to conclude so. Do enjoy the rest of your evening, Harry," Dumbledore said.

"I hope that you enjoy yours, too," responded Harry, though still a little affronted at the information that Dumbledore had just so willingly given to him.

* * *

While Voldemort could not say that he enjoyed balls, he could admit that he was certainly within his element. Socialising, playing politics and pandering to politicians, Voldemort was able to talk a fair few people around his finger. There were more than enough people swooning over him, too. He knew that he was dressed very attractively, in the height of pureblood fashion, and that he had his most charming smile on this evening especially for using his looks against others. Almost surprising him, though, was that he could have sworn he had caught Lord Potter checking him out more than once! Never mind that he only noticed because he was doing the same – he felt that somebody should have made a law already against dress trousers that hug a man's arse in such a way – it was completely improper, and he had thought the man would be more discreet than that. Though from what he had gathered, Lord Potter was something of a flirt. This behaviour, however, occurred entirely before he had left the ballroom with Professor Dumbledore. Once he had returned, Potter seemed far more intent on talking people's ears off about his political beliefs, and did not spare one glance towards Voldemort's arse.

He had become a lot more vicious in his attacks, too, Voldemort observed. He would often note the faster speech in the other man's passion, and a slight glow to his cheeks which indicated frustration. From his continued research into the political style of Potter, Voldemort observed some quite stark differences. Unlike his usual vulture mentality, where he would wait patiently for the debating partner to curse themselves with their own argument and then pick at the remains to ensure they had fully given up on their arguments, what he saw now was more a mixture of the Grim and a crow. The Grim would tear through the argument and the debater, actively doing the killing, and the crow would then wrap its claws around the debater's soul and replace it with new ideals.

It was fascinating to watch, though a struggle to keep a subtle eye on the happenings while also carrying out his own tasks of persuasion. It was a heated atmosphere at the Ministry Ball this year, and Voldemort felt that the presence of two Dark Lords certainly would be contributing to this.

Towards the end of the evening, when the attendees were all close to or in the process of deciding to leave, Lord Potter actually approached Voldemort. There was a charming expression masked on his face, but a hint of concern in his eyes.

"Good evening, Lord Voldemort," he greeted, extending his hand to shake.

"Good evening, Lord Potter. A pleasure to see you here," Voldemort responded, donning an equally charming smile.

"It is regretful that I have not previously been in a position to come and speak to you, though I assure you it would have been of great pleasure to me. But now that I am here, I would like to extend to you an invitation to join me for drinks once again, this evening. If you are in a position to leave now, I would find that to be most convenient."

Voldemort levelled Potter with a neutral stare, but he was immediately suspicious of this invitation. While he did not find Potter's company unpleasant, as much as he hated to admit it, he did not want to waste his time on more needless socialising, as the last invitation had resulted in.

"What could be so important, Lord Potter, for you to require my presence this evening? Could you not book a more informal appointment?" Voldemort enquired, curious by Potter's apparent urgency.

"It is a matter regarding the Light, and information that certain members seem intent on sharing. This information regards you in particular, and so I feel it important to inform you of the situation immediately so that you are in a position to respond to such an act."

"I see," Voldemort hummed. The drinks element to it, clearly, was more a façade, or an excuse to discuss more political topics. He supposed if the Light were getting stronger he would have to get used to working alongside Potter in such a way. No matter, he would still manage to climb his way above the other Dark Lord eventually. "Drinks would be a pleasure, Lord Potter. Please lead the way," Voldemort accepted politely, and accompanied Potter to the apparation points.

Where they arrived was the same room that the two wizards had drunk at the other night, and Voldemort was not sure how he felt about the associations he had with the surroundings. Instead of offering Voldemort a seat in this room, however, he led him through a pair of shuttered doors onto a wide covered balcony.

He could not help but be astonished by the view; there were looking out onto a grand display of mountains and valleys, only the snow atop the mountains and the ripples in the lakes being illuminated by the bright moon, and an incredibly clear view of the stars.

"We are currently in my Norway base," Lord Potter clarified, observing the small look of wonder that Voldemort allowed onto his expression. "By far my favourite. I spend a lot of time out here, overlooking the mountains. There are a great many magical creatures and plants out there too, if one cares to look. I regret not having explored it yet as well as I would like to. Perhaps one day you would like to accompany me on such an exploration!" Potter turned and grinned at Voldemort.

Voldemort merely smiled back politely, not daring to commit to such a thing, despite how tempting it was to give in to such a charming grin.

"But please take a seat," Potter offered as he turned to light the candles around. "What would you like to drink? The issues we have to discuss involve Dumbledore, so I warn you now, you may want something a bit stronger than wine this time."

"In which case I will take a beetle berry whiskey, if it is not too much trouble," Voldemort requested, his eyebrow quirking slightly. He had a feeling that he would not like what Potter had to say to him at all.

Once he had returned with the drinks, they both sat in silence for a moment to appreciate their liqueurs.

"Earlier tonight," Potter finally started, turning Voldemort's attention to him again, "Dumbledore took me to have a few words about the bill he is currently pushing for in the Wizengamot."

Voldemort nodded to show that he was listening.

"Terribly boring, I'm sure you'll agree, all that political nonsense. Dumbledore's  _strategy_  though," the man laughed, "the mad man, you won't believe it;  _he tried to convince me that Dark magic was evil_! What a laugh!"

"I quite agree," Voldemort smirked in response. Dumbledore, for all his years senior to the two men, could be incredibly dense at times.

"I wish that's where it ended, though," Potter frowned slightly at this. "He then turned to personal attacks. You know as well as I do that these things a fairly common; as much as I wish it wasn't so, personal attacks are often used to try to undermine a certain ideology shared by the wizard under attack. Dumbledore chose the target of his attack as you." Potter paused, waiting for a response.

"I am perfectly immune to petty attacks in politics, I can assure you Lord Potter. I do not find myself affected by the opinions of others, least of all Dumbledore."

"Indeed, I thought as much," Potter agreed. "And I found it odd that he would choose you to attack in particular, seeing as you are hardly the face of the opposition to his bill, nor do you hold any position in the dark community above me, you being rather a lot younger than myself."

Voldemort frowned, but could not deny the truth in that statement, though it was hard to ignore the irritation that prickled him at hearing it said so casually.

"If it had been, I don't know, a reference to your temper, or general personality, I would not have considered the matter to be an issue. Dumbledore would be left alone for the time being. I have not heard of such information before, and so I infer that it has been your intention to keep it a closely guarded secret, and so I will give you my word that this information stays as secret to me as the discovery of your horcruxes."

He flinched internally at the reminder, but made no response otherwise to Potter having brought the issue up. He was already feeling a small amount of anxiety at what was to come.

"Dumbledore told me quite bluntly about your childhood."

His whole being froze at this. His  _childhood?_

"He told me that you had been brought up in an orphanage with muggles, that they bullied you badly and that this is why you turned to the dark and turned against muggles. More to this, however, is that he described your rise to power as no more than the natural desperation for revenge of a truly damaged child."

Voldemort felt true fury, then. How  _dare_  Dumbledore say such things to his rival? How  _dare_  he make him look weak in front of another?  _How dare he compromise my image in the eyes of Lord Potter?_  Voldemort felt himself raging in his mind.

"You know, and I know, that this type of childhood is not a weakness, it is not something to be ashamed of. I am not here to ridicule you for that, nor am I here to talk about your past if you do not wish to. My concern is Dumbledore's complete willingness to throw this information about to use against you in the world of politics."

 _Reign it in_ , he told himself,  _do not let your fury cloud your judgement. You have learnt to control your emotions._

Voldemort took a much-needed sip of his whiskey, grateful for the strong drink. He could not do anything about the fact that Potter knew this, and knowing the other man's childhood Voldemort knew that he would not use it against him. The problem, as Potter had rightly stated, was Dumbledore.

"Thank you for disclosing this information with me," Voldemort finally responded, calmly, and Potter nodded. "It is indeed an issue that Dumbledore is so loose in his morals to spread such a thing about. In terms of actions, I will have my people keep a much closer eye on Dumbledore. I will know who he interacts with, when he interacts with them, and I will be the first to know if any rumour against the Dark comes from him. Unfortunately, there is not much to be done about Dumbledore's knowledge of this information. As the deputy Head teacher at Hogwarts at the time of my admission, he was the member of staff to inform me of my place in the school. He saw the orphanage, and he heard from the Matron how I was seen and how I acted in turn."

"How was it, then, that the Heir of Slytherin ended up in a muggle orphanage?" Potter asked, and Voldemort would have been infuriated if it were not for the earnest curiosity he saw in the other man's eyes.

"My father was a muggle, by the name of Riddle, and my mother, a Gaunt, whose family thought she was a squib. After my conception the muggle abandoned her, and she was left as scraps for Death to pick at. Her remaining strength took her to an orphanage in London, where she died in birth. Dumbledore theorises that I was conceived under the influence of a love potion, and is therefore convinced that I am incapable of love." Voldemort sneered. "Despite what Dumbledore thinks, I am not my past."

"And nor am I," Potter agreed.

They sat, again, in silence. As much as it irked him to know that Potter knew so much about him, had hold of so much information, he supposed it made some sense that the man knew about his childhood, how similar it had been to his own. And that was the weird thing. Voldemort had been determined to avoid this man until he knew for certain that he was strong enough to better him, and yet again and again they would fall into the same places; maybe that was because their childhood, too, had been in much the same place. It was an odd feeling too, to be able to empathise with somebody. When Lord Potter had spoken about his muggle relatives, it had resonated with him, knowing so well how it felt to be shunned for his magic. Further still, he felt that Potter may even had had it worse. Voldemort had only met his relatives long enough to shoot killing curses at them, and that was much later on, but as an infant he had never known family; he could not for the life of him imagine how it would feel to have family, who were supposed to love unconditionally, act so violently. He could not for the life of him work out why he would  _want_  to imagine such a thing. It was none of his business; he had his own life to run, his own past to escape. Why would he bother with anybody else's, let alone Lord Potter's?

"You still owe me for ruining my meeting with the vampires," Potter suddenly blurted out, interrupting Voldemort's thoughts.

"I owe you nothing, the way you've treated me," Voldemort snarled, affronted by such a statement.

"Hey, now!" Potter defended, raising his hands, one still clutching his drink. "I did nothing to deserve somebody snatching away a once in a lifetime opportunity to get on the side of  _vampires_."

"I wonder why you brought it up if it's such a sore subject for you," Voldemort mocked, finishing his drinks.

"I brought it up because you owe me!" Potter exclaimed. "Do you realise how embarrassing it was to be so prepared and yet turned away as soon as I turned up?"

"I can imagine it was humiliating," Voldemort commented, "but I owe you nothing. You are acting like a petulant child."

Amusingly, Potter's response to this was close enough to a pout, which was hardly fitting for a Dark Lord.

"I'm getting another drink," the man stated as he left his chair. "Do you want one?"

"Not particularly," Voldemort dismissed. "I've seen how you are with the slightest consumption of alcohol and I really would rather avoid blurting all my secrets out to you. Come to think of it, I'd rather not hear yours all over again." He got up to leave.

"Oh." Potter said, surprised at this. "Yes I suppose that's fair. Let me take you to the apparation point at least."

Voldemort accepted this offer, and they walked together through the building. Once they had reached the point, he did not bother to glance back at Potter before he retrieved his wand to apparate away.

"Voldemort," Potter called, and he turned around. "We are not victims of muggles."

Voldemort was about to protest the issue being brought up again when he was interrupted.

"We are not victims of the Light's oppression against our magic. We are fighters. A united fight for a united magic!"

"I am not one of your idiotic followers, Potter," Voldemort said disdainfully. "You're not getting me to say that."

Potter only laughed, and whistled back off down the corridor as Voldemort left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So anyway, Voldemort seems to be on the verge of accepting that there won't be much of a rivalry - they seem to get along a little too well for that. Well, perhaps maybe just that Harry's too friendly. Especially under the consumption of alcohol. But is that not what we love about him? I love him.


	6. Chapter 6

In the large sitting room, a roaring fire lent some warmth to the Prewetts' home, despite the relative size of it. Ignatius and Lucretia were sat, peacefully, drinking tea and discussing the latest news in The Prophet, when Albus Dumbledore suddenly firecalled them.

Ignatius was rather befuddled by the appearance of his old friend, and Lucretia looked somewhat unimpressed, though she did not do much to show it other than continue to drink her tea in silence. Dumbledore, however, looked grave, and Ignatius was suddenly worried as to what might have gone wrong. Certainly, Dumbledore rarely visited looking such a way, nor ever at such a time; he was usually his normal carefree self, opting to keep politics to the politicians and only calling for organised friendly catch-ups.

"Albus, my good friend!" Ignatius exclaimed, setting down his tea. "What brings you to call at such a late time in the evening? Has something happened?" He worried, not feeling reassured by the frown furrowing in Dumbledore's eyebrows. The crackling of the fire around the older man made him seem almost sinister.

"Ignatius, my good man. It is good to see you again, though I am very sorry for it to be under such circumstances," Dumbledore spoke, and Ignatius frowned too, in concern. "I was wondering if you would be able to join me and some other Light families for something of a meeting in the late afternoon tomorrow. I know it is on short notice, but I have some terrible concerns. I don't know if you've noticed, Ignatius, but the Dark has become incredibly powerful recently, and I don't know how long it'll be before they make a move against us. I want to set up an organisation to counteract that. We may well be heading for war, my friend," Dumbledore finished gravely.

"I'm sure I will be able to make it, Albus, for such a serious issue," Ignatius agreed, suddenly feeling very worried.

"Very good, I shall see you tomorrow my friend," and then Dumbledore left their fireplace.

"He cannot be serious, Ignatius?" Lucretia finally spoke up, the hand holding her tea trembling slightly.

"I really am unable to say. Albus is a strange man, true, and I certainly have not noticed a threat to the Light, but… he is an intelligent and kind man. I would trust him with my life."

* * *

The water at the shore of the lake was clear, though as Harry stared down at the rocks beneath it his reflection stared back up at him, rippling slightly. He had never felt comfortable having a reflection. He did not know much about dimensions, but he had also feared that it was another version of himself looking back at him. Him in appearance, and in experience, but not…  _him_. As if the eyes were not quite his eyes. It was a disturbing thought.

The strength and heat of the sun was bearing heavily against the back of his neck, and he crouched to delicately take some of the water and relieve his neck. But he was grateful for the sun, as his views of the lake were magnificent. Gurudongmar Lake, in India, was a deep blue in the sun, and the mountains that fringed the water were reflected in an only slightly tainted mirror image. It reminded Harry that there were so many more places in the world of similar beauty that he had yet to visit, and probably never would. The beauty of the world could only be glimpsed by human eye. He wondered, then, if Voldemort would use his immortality to travel every inch of the world. If Harry had immortality, he was sure that that was what he would do.

Harry had left one of his followers, a Finnish witch named Twain, in charge while he was away, with instructions to keep a sharp eye on the activities of politics in Britain and to stay in the country. He was surprised that so many of his followers, not being English, were happy to have such a focus in Britain, though he supposed with the threat to the image and respectability of the Dark that Voldemort posed it made sense to them.

A more violent ripple then hit the water, and Harry could see two figures begin to emerge, crawling out of the water and then reaching their full height. Harry had imagined rather crudely that Naga, being so closely tied with the human race many centuries ago, would have something of a half snake half human appearance. This turned out not to be the case. The two Naga that approached him were largely snake-like in form, with only a more humanoid face and mouth, on which Harry was able to recognise joy. One was a watery blue, and the other a watery green, and their scales shone brilliantly in the sunlight.

"Namaste," Harry greeted the two Naga.

"Namaste," they greeted in response.

"Mera naam Harry Potter aur main anushthaan ke baare mein aa gae hain," he said, hopefully translating roughly to  _'my name is Harry Potter and I have come about the ritual'_.

Fortunately, the Naga appeared to understand what he had been saying, and were nodding enthusiastically. As Harry had discovered when he had first made contact with the Naga people of this lake, they knew only two languages; Parseltongue, for their own communication, and Hindi, if they needed to communicate with the locals. Harry knew little Hindi, which was making it somewhat difficult to communicate, and he knew absolutely no Parseltongue, which, incidentally, was why he was there. Having found out that Voldemort could speak Parseltongue, especially in such a way as it had been spoken to him, Harry had wanted to find a way to possess the ability also. At the time, he had wanted to take the man down a peg. Now, it was a general curiosity to learn more, and to be able to communicate with Voldemort in private if such a need were to occur, as one could never be too careful.

Harry continued; "vahaan Briten mein apanee bhaasha ka keval ek vakta hai, aur vah apanee kshamata mein bahut garv hai. Main apanee bhaasha seekhana chaahate hain to yah hai ki main is aadamee kee raksha aur use achchhee kampanee rakhane ke lie madad karane mein saksham hoon."

What Harry was trying to communicate was that there was only one speaker of their language in Britain, a man who was very proud of his ability, and that he wanted to help and protect this man. It was not entirely untrue, as he suspected that the Naga would have noticed any insincerity, and certainly if he were wanting to use it for malicious purposes. As it was, they seemed positively thrilled, their bright grins showing off large fangs, though they were not too intimidating within such friendly smiles.

"Ham Briten mein ek vakta ke baare mein suna hairaan hain," one of the Naga said, which Harry thought translated to an expression of surprise at there being a speaker of Parseltongue in Britain.

"Lekin ham vishesh roop se suraksha ke lie, bahut tumhaaree madad karane mein khushee hogee," the other said, potentially meaning that they were happy to help him seeing as it was for the purposes of protection.

The Naga people, Harry knew, had never before given the ability of Parseltongue through any means other than reproduction, and so Harry was incredibly excited at being given the chance to experiment a little – the Naga seemed just as excited as he was. He had discovered a base language learning ritual to use, and had meticulously unpicked it to be suitable for Parseltongue and to make sure it did not harm the Naga more than necessary; it was a Dark ritual, but that was suited to the naga as they held an affinity leaning to the Dark anyway. It involved the Naga wilfully giving blood and scales, and Harry giving blood and hair, but that could all be given painlessly, and there was no more pain involved than that.

"Ham bahut maanav jaadoo svaad ke lie utsaahit kar rahe hain," one of the Naga commented, and Harry knew this time that they were saying how excited they were to try human magic.

Further up on of the mountains surrounding the lake, the two Naga and Harry stood in a triangle. There was a strong concentration of magic in this area, and so it would be ideal for the ritual. Harry produced a chisel and carved the appropriate formulas into the rock beneath them. He then requested that the Naga each give some of their blood and a scale each; the scales sat in the centre of the triangle and the blood forming a circle around it. Harry placed a strand of his hair carefully in the centre, and added his own blood to the circle. The blood mixed into a muddy brown, Harry's red and the Naga' purple joining as one. He then withdrew his wand, and drew out the rune for 'mouth' and the rune for 'gift' to focus the magic. Then began the chant.

"Munus est, ut homo ex vestibulum, munus est, ut humo ex vestibulum, munus est, ut homo ex vestibulum."

After the third chant, the Naga joined in, calling it out three more times.

They stood silent for a moment, and then the formulas in the rock glowed, and the runic symbols manifested themselves in the air, before it all disappeared.

When Harry nodded to indicate the ritual had finished, the first Naga exclaimed out in Parseltongue " _did it work?!_ "

Harry grinned, and replied with glee " _I think it did! I can understand you, can you both understand me?_ "

" _Yes!_ " they both responded happily.

" _Thank you so much, words cannot express how grateful I am for you helping me_ ," Harry said, now that they were able to converse properly. " _How may I repay you for such a wonderful gift as this language?_ "

" _You need not repay us in any ways that your kind consider valuable_ ," the first commented, still visibly excited.

" _You have shown us the beauty of human magic,_ " the other agreed, " _and that is gift enough for us, our friend. We ask only that you revisit us every decade or so!_ "

" _I shall be glad to do so_ " Harry laughed. " _Though I am afraid that now I must go, I have been away from my friends at home for too long._ "

" _Farewell, Harry!_ " the two Naga called as he turned to apparate away.

He was keen to get back home having been away for two days; it was not long, but in the current state of things, he was anxious leaving for even half a day.

* * *

Voldemort found himself sat very uncomfortably in an elegant armchair, facing a wary looking blonde lady. He had been assured that this was Potter's Welsh base, and that the man in question would be returning at some point today. Having sat rigidly in his elegant armchair for a good two hours, Voldemort was starting to have his doubts. In the past half hour, Voldemort and the blonde woman had not broken eye contact, in some sort of challenging and untrusting stare-off. They had been making eye contact for nearly an hour previous to the current half hour, until she was distracted by another of Potter's followers walking in and pulling her gaze away. She had cold blue eyes, and yet she looked unimpressed with Voldemort's red ones, which he felt was a true tragedy. His eyes were the most alluring eyes that he (apart from those gree-) that he knew of, and it was a great shame that this woman was too suspicious of him to notice such a feature. Not that he was so vain as to care greatly.

"I repeat, Lord Voldemort," the woman spoke with a Finnish accent, and did not break the eye contact. "We do not know exactly when today Lord Potter will be returning here. It may well be that he does not arrive until well into the night. I can assure you that you will be owled as soon as we hear of his return."

"That will not be necessary," Voldemort dismissed her. "I have been sat here for two hours already have I not? I am comfortable sitting here for several more."

'Comfortable', having been meant in a very loose sense; there was nothing comfortable about the current situation. He did, however, feel a small sense of triumph at the twitch of irritation in her eyes as he spoke. Truly, it was the little things in life.

He had, of course, made the journey with a follower of his own, Nott. He would not risk a potential attack against himself and he was confident than Nott and he would be able to take on a good ten of Potter's followers. Perhaps it would have been ever so slightly less uncomfortable if Nott was sat rigidly in silence in the armchair beside his Lord. This, however, was not the case. Nott – the traitor – was stood further into the room, actually managing to make conversation with one of Potter's followers over the tea that had been brought in a fair time ago.  _The muffled sound of rain on the window is more interesting than what they're talking about,_  Voldemort thought to himself bitterly.

He supposed the surroundings were pleasant, nonetheless. Though he could not inspect the room carefully, due to his eyes being otherwise engaged in a silent battle with a Finnish woman who he was sure hated him, he could tell that it had been nicely decorated. He wondered if it was owned by one of the older pureblood families from Europe; the light furnishings and structure was reminiscent of Greek architecture, and had perhaps been a home away from home, though it was beyond him why anybody, anybody from Greece in particular, would choose to have a holiday home in Wales. It was a quaint little country with some nice scenery, Voldemort could admit that much, but it was always so grey and rainy. One would have thought that anybody with a bit of money would be investing in holiday homes in bigger, more exciting places than Wales.

Maybe he was just put off by the many visits there he had experienced in the orphanage.

As time ticked by endlessly – and obnoxiously, come to think of it, as there was a large clock facing him, each  _tick, tick_ , ringing in his ears – Voldemort was desperate for Potter to return. Potter, at least, was sometimes bearable, but he did not want to have to be around his followers so much. They weren't  _his_  followers, and they treated him with not even half of the respect that he deserved, despite being far superior to them in power. Perhaps not in years, but in pure magical strength he had the edge. But of course, Potter himself was a lot more liberal with his followers. While they did still refer to him as "My Lord", he had observed, Potter seemed open to treating all of them with respect, outside of the inner circle – in fact, from what he could tell, there was no inner circle. It was absolute madness, and it drove Voldemort to the edge just to have to be around such poorly trained followers.

Voldemort had still not taken his stare off the blonde woman. There was something off about her, and Voldemort was sure that she wanted to attack him. She did not trust him, and it was just as well he did not trust her either. Indeed, all of the eye contact would have made for wonderful opportunity to delve into her mind, but for the fact that she seemed to have her thoughts well protected, and Voldemort did not want to make a violent attack, lest he drew the ire of Potter. As much fun as that would be, it would not be productive to his purpose, and he did not want to have sat through hours of staring contests for nothing.

The tension was suddenly broken – smashed, perhaps being a better word for it – by Potter bounding into the room, a swing to his step, whistling incessantly. His whistle, however, cut short when he had fully processed the room, and observed the tension. Nott and his  _new friend_  had fell silent, too, both of Potter's followers kneeling and greeting him.

"What's up here, Twain?" Harry asked, eyes falling warily to Voldemort.

Voldemort only tilted his head in acknowledgement, keeping his expression neutral. Potter seemed somewhat relieved that there did not appear to be any hostility present, merely some tension between Voldemort and Twain, he observed as her name.

"I-I'm afraid, My Lord, I am not entirely certain," Twain stuttered sheepishly. "I know only that Lord Voldemort is here to have a conversation, or discussion with you. He will not leave until you see him, My Lord."

"Right-y-o, then," Potter clapped his hands together, still obviously in a jovial mood. "A pleasure to see you so soon again, Lord Voldemort," he greeted. "Will we be needing a separate room, or will here be fine?"

The attention turned entirely to Voldemort, and he slowly and coolly rose, finding irritation in Lord Potter's relaxed state.

"Here will be fine, Lord Potter. Because while you were off frolicking about on your no doubt useless explorations, Britain has been on the brink of  _crisis_. Not that any of your followers appeared to be aware of the fact" Voldemort sneered at Twain, and she scowled back.

"You could have reached me," Harry defended still relaxed. "I'm sure an owl could have found me, of if you were really desperate I have a few followers who can contact me within moments."

Voldemort grew further frustrated at Potter's casual demeanor.

"Do you have any understanding of what's going on in your own country, Potter? There is an increasing divide between the dark and the light, increasing tensions, politicians and businessmen alike rubbing shoulder to shoulder and yet on the verge of slicing each other's throats; you came to me only the other night about dirty tricks being used by the Light and I had assumed you  _knew_  and  _understood_  what was going on in the country, and yet you are so focused on your tiny little changes to the world, preventing this bill, supporting that one, doing nice little speeches to people who either already agree or don't care!" he felt his voice rise in volume, as he vented his frustrations at the seemingly clueless man. "You can't possibly have known what was going on in the country, because otherwise you wouldn't have been  _stupid_  enough to go off doing who knows what,  _nobody_  would be  _that stupid_ , because if we're not ready to act the  _moment_  these political tensions snap, we're lost! We allow the Light to grab increasing power, is that what you want?" Voldemort began to approach Potter as he spoke until they were nearly forehead to forehead. "While you were away and I was sat on that  _damn_ chair," he jabbed his finger backwards, "we could have lost everything!"

He stopped for a moment, catching his breath, and revelling in the shock plastered on Potter's face, as well as the clear guilt in his eyes. Yes, Potter knew what he had done, but he had not thought it through at the time. Hopefully, Voldemort's visit would be a wake-up call to him. It was not quite as drastic as Voldemort was making out, of course, but it was close enough to truth that Potter should be ashamed of his behaviour.

"And you damn well better start acting now," he murmured, aware of his breath falling on Potter's lips, but unable to care. "Because word's going around of a  _Light Army_."

A heavy silence fell, and Voldemort stepped back to let the information sink in. As he watched Potter, he could practically see the thought process happening; he could see every twitch of his eyes, feel every irregularity of his breath, and read his thoughts as if he were using mind magic. Potter really was an open book. Finally, there was clarity in the man's eyes.

"Dumbledore?" he asked, voice quiet but determined already.

"Dumbledore." Voldemort confirmed, glad that he did not have to spell this part out to him at least.

"Fuck."

Voldemort could not help but share those exact sentiments as he watched Potter fully gather himself together, acting as if he had not just been yelled down by a Dark Lord who was years younger than him; in front of his own followers, no less.

"Twain!" he called, and the woman was upright in a fraction of a second.

"Yes, My Lord?" she responded, ready to take her orders. Maybe Potter's followers were not as badly disciplined as he had thought.

"Get set on forming a group to gather global forces sympathetic to the British Dark community; ideally from around the world, not just from Europe, though there will naturally be our focus. If Dumbledore is truly forming a Light army, then we need all the international help we can get. Make an official statement to filter through the organisation that Voldemort is not a threat, and we will not be watching his actions. He will henceforth be considered an ally.

Voldemort was mildly annoyed by the fact that Potter had not confirmed an ally status with him, but knowing it saved time just to assume, and that the assumption had been correct, he decided to let it slide in order to let Potter work.

"Rolland!" he called again, this time to the German man who had been speaking with Nott.

"Ready, My Lord."

"Alert the Gorilla division that it is likely we will be assuming war status. They will be increasing the regularity of training in duelling and combat. Nobody is excused from base training unless they are granted permission from me. Understood?"

"Yes, My Lord."

"Lord Voldemort," Potter finally turned to face him. "What is your current plan to deal with the threat?"

"I have informed my followers that on the face, we will be continuing business as usual. The Light has made no overt threat just yet, and so it would not do to alert them that we know of their plans before we are fully prepared for the repercussions of it ourselves." Voldemort was pleased when Potter nodded in agreement. "We will want to ramp up the propaganda campaigns, however, as not doubt the ones from the Light will be vicious with Dumbledore at their side."

"I quite agree," Potter said. "I do have dirt on Dumbledore in particular, and he, of course, should be our main target as the figurehead of the Light. The intelligence team should be able to dig up some more, but your followers are more deeply integrated into British politics, so you may have a better chance at bringing up stuff to go with what I already have."

"What exactly is it that you have?" Voldemort enquired, eager to know what the headmaster had done.

Potter tapped his nose, and Voldemort barely refrained from rolling his eyes at the man. "A scandalous love affair…" Potter trailed off mysteriously, and Voldemort thought for a moment that he was not going to continue. The man instead leaned in to whisper in his ear, "with none other than Gellert Grindelwald."

Voldemort took a moment to process what had been whispered so sensually into his ear.  _Gellert Grindelwald_. Now  _that_  was front page news. The information would, as much of a shame as it was, be held until the perfect moment. It was not a small scandal to be thrown out at any point; it needed to come at a time where it would destroy Dumbledore. Potter grinned wickedly, and Voldemort could not help but smirk in return. Neither of them commented on the fact that they were still stood within an inch of each other.

Having finished his business, happy that there was definite action against the light, Voldemort turned and returned to his own headquarters, with Nott by his side.

* * *

In a dim-lit tatty room with only a stub of a candle, a grubby window with no curtains (not that they were needed from all the grime coating the glass), and a large table, Aberforth led the last of the group in. The man did not look impressed with the surroundings he was being led into, but he did not have much of a choice, either; they all trusted Albus with everything they were, and their pride would not get in the way of that, Aberforth was sure of it. The man he had led in hastily sat down on the last remaining stool, looking grateful to have the company of the people he trusted.

Aberforth himself sat just outside the room, pretending to keep a look out of anybody who might be a little too interested in the meeting, but largely just listening in to it himself. He wished that he was not still interested in his brother's affairs, wished that he no longer cared what his stupid older brother was up to, but he did. It was not something that he could help. Albus was family, despite what he had done.

"Dark wizards are torturers," he heard Albus implore to his listeners. "They torture muggles and animals for fun, just to test out their magic! You've seen the sort of spells that they have access to, haven't you? What is the point in them being Dark unless they don't use it? I am gravely concerned by the increased use of such magic. It is clearly a danger to innocent people, and this is why we need to be fighting against it. I had thought that you would all understand, but it's okay. I know you are all good people; you have merely been exposed to propaganda, trying to suggest that Dark magic is not evil, that it should have equal status to Light magic. But I assure you, my friends, that from my experience  _it is_ evil. Dark witches and wizards go out into muggle villages in the dead of night to torture muggles, and in countries were laws on Dark magic are more relaxed, they will even stoop to snatching muggle born children from their families."

Aberforth heard some gasps, people who clearly had no heard such things before. It really did sound very awful, and he did not have much experience himself, but knowing his brother… he wondered how much of it was true.

"We won the war against Grindelwald. Some of you, my good friends, even helped me with that," he heard Dumbledore saying. "But these people would bring back those ideals. There are many Grindelwald sympathisers within the Dark, you just haven't been able to see them because they're distracting you all with ideas of liberty and freedom for all magic! Is it freedom, when theirs imposes on the freedom of others?"

There was a murmur of agreement at that, until one person spoken up.

"But, Albus," she interjected. "You speak of Grindelwald sympathisers, but, the figurehead of the dark, Lord Potter, wasn't he instrumental of the downfall of Grindelwald along with his followers?"

Aberforth could practically see the slight shimmer of irritation that would have been in Albus's eye after that comment, not that the attendees would notice, those poor souls. Albus sighed quietly, and then sounded very sorrowful. A creak sounded from one of the stools.

"Harry Potter is just one man, I'm afraid," he said, "and men can change. Potter was a good man, and fought for a worthy cause, but now… Now he fights for the users of magic for torture, magic for pain and anger, and tries to suggest that they deserve to have the same place that the Light holds. And this, my friends, would be the first step to a Dark magic dictatorship. But let us not discuss what would happen if we left it alone; we are here to fight, are we not?" He sounded more cheerful at this point, but Aberforth was certain that he was still feeling frustrated that he had to put so much convincing into the people before him.

Albus Dumbledore was in war mode.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Furthering the plot, because what use are all these minor clashes between Harry and Voldemort if they aren't eventually forced together, eh? As if they'd get cosier on their own accord! Ha!


	7. Chapter 7

Harry was in his drawing room with Lin. It was the same room, actually, that he had first drink with Voldemort in, and maybe that was not exactly helping his feeling of uneasiness. He was on his third glass of wine – Lin did not like Harry drinking hard alcohol with him, as he had said it made him too talkative – and the two had been sat in silence for the whole time so far. Harry's mind had been… elsewhere. He was frantically thinking about the suddenly oncoming war, how he had failed to see it coming, and so he had failed his followers, too, in a sense. The alcohol was not really helping his clarity of mind, however, and so the later the evening became the more he felt completely lost. At first, he had thought it would be fine. He had a strong following, plenty of man power, and he had defeated Grindelwald before. But this felt different. More chaotic. Instead of fighting alongside Dumbledore against a muggle hater he was fighting alongside a muggle hater against Dumbledore. It refused to quite fit in Harry's mind, especially with the issues of magical unity, but he knew that he had to protect his own first and foremost, and Dumbledore was threatening them.

"What is troubling you, my friend?" Lin finally asked, swirling the wine around his glass.

Harry knew that his mentor was looking pensively at him, but he was content to stare at his glass instead.

"I would have thought it was obvious what's troubling me," Harry mumbled and took another gulp of his wine.

Lin did not seem too concerned about the potential war, and perhaps that should have calmed Harry's nerves about it all, but it had not. It mostly made him feel annoyed; he had every right to be stressed, and he most certainly did not need asking  _why_  he was stressed.

"You are mistaken if you think that you are stressed because of Dumbledore and the war, Harry," Lin said smoothly, but Harry did not find his voice calming now. "Look inside yourself. It is not war that is causing you turmoil."

Harry scowled and finally looking up from his now empty glass.

"Of course it's Dumbledore, of course it's the war! What else  _could_ it be? This war is a threat to our peace, it's a threat to everything; we had been making progress, but if we lose this, we'll likely be imprisoned merely for our magical affinity! More than that, this is threatening my own values of magical unity! Why  _would_  it be anything else?"

Lin just shook his head sadly. "You are really trying to convince me that you are pouring yourself a fourth drink over a mere political threat?" Harry froze over the wine bottle. "Please, Harry, do not patronise me in this way. You never have more than one drink over political problems because it clouds your judgement. This is different, and you know that as well as I do."

Harry frowned as he poured his drink, deciding that he did not care what Lin thought about it. He did not respond to his ex-tutor, opting instead to work on blocking his thoughts, which was quite easy once he was drinking his wine again. There was not anything other than the war too trouble him, Lin was being stupid.  _Lin is stupid_  Harry thought petulantly.

"I'm not stupid, Harry" Lin warned, almost as if he had read Harry's thoughts. "I can see what's going on here."

Ungracefully flopping himself back on his seat, Harry scowled this time. "There's nothing to see, Lin. I don't know what you're talking about." And really, by this point, he meant it. He just knew that he was annoyed and that Lin was making it worse.

"Could we maybe start by taking the drink away from you, Harry?" Lin asked tentatively, suddenly now seeming very friendly.

"What for?" Harry asked as he finished his glass.

"Alcohol dependency is no joke. I shouldn't have let you drink for this long, but I confess I was in my own world for a lot of it. But please, Harry. This is not how we deal with your problems. Now hand me your glass."

Ah. He supposed, even in his tipsy state, that Lin was right. This most definitely not how he should deal with his problems; but he could barely work out what it was this time! Even still, he handed his glass over without a word, knowing that his mentor always knew what was best for him, even now, or especially now, as he suspected that he was acting somewhat like a child.

"Perhaps I should have been blunter with you, my friend. I am merely concerned, about the war, yes, but about who you're fighting it with."

"Voldemort can be trusted!" Harry interrupted, not wanting to here that his tutor was against becoming allies with him. "I trust him."

Lin sighed again. "I know you trust him, Harry. And if you trust him, I trust him too." Harry felt himself relax. "You just can't lie to yourself on this. You absolutely cannot work with this man if you insist on so stubbornly denying your feelings for him."

"Fuck," Harry said, and buried his face in his hands.

"I understand," Lin said soothingly.

"It does concern me," Harry said, removing his face from his hands. "I am aware of it, sort of. It's just easier to ignore for what I need to do. I don't want to let Voldemort get the better of me just because of his looks; just because I'm attracted to him doesn't make him suddenly a good person, it doesn't excuse his behaviour one bit. What him and his followers do to muggles is vile. I can't just ignore that. And that's why working with him is going to be so hard too." Harry groaned. It was absolute madness.

"You have never been one to deny yourself such things as this," Lin commented, looking incredibly thoughtful. "Even when the person in question opposes your morals. Did you not once have a lover who wanted to have all Dark animals hunted down? Not that I thought that she was a good choice in partner, mind you, never mind how charming she was."

Harry sighed, stood, and started pacing. "That was maybe once true, Lin, but I'm older now, I have more responsibility, I have more  _strength_ -"

"You have more wine to drown yourself in?" Lin contributed, and Harry gave him a playful smack.

"I haven't taken a lover in years, Lin, you know this. I just can't afford to have somebody poking around in my morals and my feelings these days."

"I suppose not," Lin agreed solemnly.

"It'll be okay. I'd be mad to take on another bloody Dark Lord as my lover, I can leave it be."

Lin hummed in agreement. "I very much doubt he'd let you top."

"Damn right he'd let me top if he was in my own damn bed!" Harry growled. "That's not the point! The point is…" he allowed himself to breathe, and stopped pacing. "If it's just lust, I can handle it. It's just lust, so I will be fine. Right, Lin?"

His ex-tutor said nothing.

* * *

 _This is not a dream_ , Voldemort told himself confidently.  _Lord Voldemort does not have frivolous dreams like mortals do. This is merely a mental practice, one which is very difficult to pull off correctly and very difficult to differentiate from a dream, in order to clear my mind of what is bothering me. Because I know that there is something. And I will find it in this room right here_.

Voldemort was content with his statement. Dreams meant a lack of control, but Voldemort would control this one to his benefit, because he was stronger and more capable than any mortal. And so, he just had to use his higher brain functioning to work out what it meant by him being in an empty classroom in Hogwarts.

It was raining heavily outside the castle, and the sound of it pounding heavily on the weak windows was disturbing the clarity of his mind. It was as if buckets were being thrown onto the windows, making a repetitive but out of time  _splat- splat—splat-splat_  and he could barely think through it. The sound was possibly enhanced by the fact that he could see very little; the rain clouds were clearly working as a thick coating over any natural light that might have made its way to him. From what he could tell, however, the room was very empty, perhaps with no furniture at all, and so the cold, damp feeling was quickly latching onto Voldemort and soaking into him until he felt like his very bones were saturated with the damp.

While the rain continued to slam against the windows, there appeared to be a break in the clouds just long enough for the moonlight to shine briefly into the room, illuminating a letter on the flagstone floor that Voldemort was sure had not been there previously. He recognised the letter, sneered in distaste at the looped green writing. It had once provided him with hope of freedom, but once he had arrived at the school he had known that Dumbledore would not be giving him any of the freedom he desired. He did not dare touch the letter, wishing to see where the drea- mind exercise would take him. Since he was in Hogwarts, and facing his Hogwarts acceptance letter, it was obviously something to do with his time in school. Perhaps what Dumbledore had been saying about his childhood to Potter?

Then, without warning, the parchment set furiously alight and burnt out of existence. Voldemort thought long and hard about what troubles this could represent. In a very obvious sense, he supposed that it could mean the ending of his childhood, but, well, Voldemort never really had a childhood in the first place, and it certainly would not have lasted as long as this. Dumbledore had set fire to his wardrobe when he delivered the letter – he had trusted the man, then. But that was the first and last time. Was this to do with trust? Voldemort had to admit it had been bothering him lately. He had had to trust Potter with the information about his horcruxes, and now his childhood on top of that. Potter had once worked alongside Dumbledore, so maybe his subconscious was trying to convince him that it was a mistake to trust Potter as it had been to trust Dumbledore.

Before he could contemplate the letter further, he was distracted by an army of snakes slithering from under the windows, and Voldemort knew that that could not be, as the windows had no holes in them; the snakes seemed to be travelling through the windows like ghosts. Crawling across the floor, they slowly slithered up Voldemort's rigid body, and curled around him comfortingly. He had always found some level of comfort in snakes, perhaps merely because he could talk to them. As a child, snakes had been his only true friends, despite them not being particularly stimulating conversation. They looked upon him in awe, and he was their master; a speaker of their tongue. It had given him such an immense feeling of power that he was almost addicted to it at the time, having never had such power before, and he had always favoured snakes since. The basilisk, especially, had been a lovely comfort to him. She had been gentle with him, considered him to be a nestling as well as a master due to his age, and nurtured his magic. And so as the snakes wrapped around him now, Voldemort felt immediately at peace.

Until the door opened behind him.

He whipped around to see the intruder, and could already feel his peace shatter as he recognised him. This clearly was meant to reflect on experiences with Dumbledore, as the man who entered now was the younger version, still with auburn hair and bright eccentric clothes contrasting deeply with the dampness and darkness of the room they were in, and adding some light; there were candles to his side, flickering wildly despite there being no wind. Something about him was not quite right, however; his look was off.

It took Voldemort a moment to realise (astounded that he had not seen the change the moment he lay his eyes on the blank faced man) that it was the eyes. They were no longer blue, as Voldemort knew them to be, but they were a clear, cutting  _green_.

The green-eyed Dumbledore opened his mouth to speak, but Voldemort could not understand the words that were coming out. Hissings and raspings and gluttural sounds from the throat were emerging, and while Dumbledore's expression was still blank, the eyes that were not his glowed in intensity. He was speaking parseltongue and Voldemort  _could not understand it_.

Around him, the snakes that had at first felt so comforting started to tighten around his body as if at the instruction of Dumbledore, pulling his arms painfully to his sides, but Voldemort could only feel the tightness growing around his heart, as if the snakes had managed to enter into his body and were attacking only this organ. The rest of him felt numb.

As Voldemort started to feel that he would not be able to take any more, the feeling burst inside him, and he was left with nothing.

The snakes had gone.

Dumbledore was no longer present.

Voldemort was left alone in the room with the pouring rain, and a sinister whisper dancing around the room.

"You will never know…"

* * *

At the 102nd European Convention of Dark Magic, held in Athens, a heated debate was taking place. Though there were formal oak tables to sit at with delicately made name plates, perhaps in the hopes of a peaceful and professional session, most of the participants of the debate were stood, their hands smacked down on their table, and looking ready to leap over the desks and throttle whichever person was causing them the most grief. Harry, for his part, was desperately trying to counter or further every point made as the rapid debate went on, attempting to keep it focused to the original issue; that being the support given to the Dark in the potential civil war in Britain. The members of the organisation were almost a random selection, in the sense that they did not all share the same status in their own country. In most countries like Britain, where there was a Light dominated parliament, the representative was usually somebody who was held in great esteem in the country for their Dark magic and politics, such as Harry. In countries where there was a Dark dominated parliament, like Turkey, or an equal parliament, like France, the representative attending was usually a government representative. Some, however, living under particularly oppressive systems, were risking life and limb to be there.

The Swedish representative was red in the face as he spoke out to the listeners, appealing to those sat down and silently observing, and attacking those who were shaking their heads at him.

"This is a ridiculous suggestion!" he cried, hands flying to his head as if in amazement. "Never before has the convention intervened in a civil war such as this, and it is not our place to start doing so!"

"There has never  _been_  an event of civil war that has threatened the balance of magic since the convention was set up, certainly not in a country as influential as Britain," Harry quickly pointed out, unsure if he was heard as the Swedish wizard spoke over him.

"Because we all have our own battles to fight!" he went on, gaining some support from other less aggressive representatives. "We can't afford to get involved with a British civil war, as this could very well lead into a world war!"

"Now be sensible!" Harry frowned as concerned mutterings spread around the room. "Just because other countries get involved it doesn't mean that those countries will be targeted themselves. This is a fight for freedom, and if you leave it be, if you allow us to lose, you will feel the repercussions! The light will continue to dominate the majority of Europe!"

A fair few more people nodded in agreement with this.

"But the peace agreements with Britain!" pointed out the Turkish representative and she pointed accusatorily at Harry. "Fighting the Light in Britain is like fighting the government, which would be completely disregarding the treaties! I refuse to betray peace with Britain for such a thing, you only want to cause conflict in our continent!"

Before Harry could get his retort in, another man responded to the woman. "Your loyalty should be to your magic, not your country! We all know Dumbledore's beliefs about the Dark, he would have us extinct if he could! We have a responsibility not only for ourselves but all of our Dark brothers and sisters and creatures that precedes the responsibility that we may have for our nation."

"Exactly!" Harry exclaimed, gesturing to the man. "This fight could severely restrict us and our people worldwide if we do not win, it's more than just money and more than just politics!"

Harry knew, regretfully, that many countries indeed could not afford to become involved in the fight, having weak economies or being repressed by the Light. This, however, was not the case for all of the countries present at this convention, and it certainly did not mean that they could not give their written support as a minimum. The reality was that Britain was just too influential in global politics to argue that this civil war would not make a difference to everybody sat in the room.

Many representatives were now speaking up in his defence, reiterating Harry's primary argument that the Dark magic was in danger on a global scale, despite it seeming such a small conflict, especially from outside of the country's perspective. It would be a fairly quiet war, Harry was sure. It may last no more than one or two years, but the end result would be the start of a new age no matter who won; if Harry and Lord Voldemort were victorious, it would mean the start of a more equal magic in Britain, but if Dumbledore won… an age of increased repression and aggression against Dark magic and its users alike. There was a weight at the pit of Harry's stomach far heavier than it had been during the war against Grindelwald. Grindelwald had resulted in the death of his parents, and had put the Dark at  _risk_  of being overcome by the Light because of his methods, but now the Dark was  _in danger_. There was no question of it. And instead of fighting for his parents, Harry would be fighting to protect his friends, his followers, those who had become more like family to him than anyone ever had before. And this only worsened the pressure. But he was older, now, and stronger. He was confident that he would be able to protect them.

After hours and hours of interruptions and exclamations and accusations, Harry's voice having become quite raw, the convention had come to a conclusion. No nation was obligated to be involved in the conflict when it came about, and Harry had no issues with this. It would not do to have politically or economically unstable forces involved. In the first instance of civil war, the nations wishing to be involved would give discreet aid to the Dark forces in Britain, such as funds and safe houses. It was barely agreed, in the final argument of the evening, that once serious moves were made and more intense battles were taking place, threatening the blood of the Dark, the nations involved would publically support volunteer forces travelling to Britain to aid the fight.

It had been a tough battle in itself, Harry having never been part of a convention so violent, and so to ease the tensions, Harry accompanied a few of the representatives to a bar in the city. They did this often after conventions, and there was something of an established group for the evenings out.

They were able to secure the balcony area of an upmarket bar, looking out onto the sea. It was peaceful, away from the stuffiness and the noise further inside. The group had been sat in a comfortable silence before Harry spoke.

"I must say, I do love Greece," he hummed, sipping his whiskey thoughtfully.

There was another silence, though shorter this time.

"Are you going to elaborate, Lord Potter?" teased Lafayette, the French representative, who was swirling her wine in her glass.

"I just love everything about it, I suppose," Harry mused. "The scenery," he gestured to the sea beyond them, "the medical magic is astounding, it never fails to impress me, I like the bars…"

"You like the escorts…" added Jordon, much to the amusement of the group.

"Hey! Now that's unfair," Harry protested, though he was laughing with them. "There are many fine escorts in every country. I am happy to give anyone a try so long as they're treated with fairness."

"Speaking of escorts…" somebody commented.

A selection of male escorts had entered their area, advertising themselves. A few of the group rose to take their leave to one of the private rooms that the bar had to offer, but Harry remained seated, choosing to sit and chat and drink for a while longer, perhaps then just return back to Britain. He did still have a lot to do, after all, and he really was not feeling up to hiring an escort.

"Potter, what are you staying for?" Someone commented. "It's not like you to turn one of these guys down, go on, have your fun!"

"I know, but I'm just not interested tonight. Thanks anyway," he smiled, taking a sip of his drink.

There was a moment of silence.

"Oh!" another person exclaimed. "It's a female escort you're looking for, isn't it? We can arrange some to join us-"

"Really," Harry interrupted. "It's fine."

"I see… Go on then, who is it?"

"What?" Harry asked, confused at the sudden question.

"Who are you saving yourself for? There must be somebody, surely."

"Look, guys, please," Harry begged, "I have enough on my mind as it is, I don't need to be worrying about what's on my cock too. Can a man not sit and have a drink just to take his mind off things?"

The pair that had been harassing him looked at each other.

"Not to tell you how you live your life…" the first one trailed off.

"But the Lord Potter we know would be far more likely to find himself some fun under the present conditions." The other finished.

"Fine," Harry laughed, finishing his drink. "You two think what you want about me not wanting a fuck. Go ahead. So long as you're enjoying your speculations, and I'll be left alone with my own thoughts which will slowly bring me to the brink of insanity with trying to work out how to win a damn war."

As if on cue, one of Harry's followers entered the balcony and made a quick bow.

"My Lord, your presence has been requested."

Harry sighed and put down his drink. "And I'm not even granted that luxury. Enjoy your evening."

* * *

It had been snowing heavily, and still was. Thick layers of snow were being heaped upon with blankets and blankets more, and Voldemort found himself mildly irritated by the weather; it was less than convenient for the task that they had set themselves for the day. Nevertheless, they could not leave it any longer. It had been two weeks before both Lord Potter and him had internally established war status, and became allies, and neither of them had wanted to leave their holds without a heavy layer of wards for any longer.

Potter, at least, seemed pleased, Voldemort noted. The man was chatting amiably with his followers, bouncing on the balls of his feet.  _He had better be telling them what to do_ , Voldemort thought moodily, unsure if he would be able to keep his temper if the man was  _gossiping_  or something equally useless. It would not surprise him.

They had both summoned all of their followers for the task. Of course, warding did not have to be done in large groups, and it very rarely was, but this would make it more powerful. The both of them had been researching into wards, and Voldemort had managed to come across some older warding techniques, where communal living had been more common. They had worked together to improve on the charms for modern day usage, and to make sure that their changes would not influence the effectiveness of the wards. It had been utterly painful, spending more time in Potter's insufferable company, but he had to admit that they had worked a lot more productively than either of them would have alone.

He turned to his own followers, all of which had dressed in heavily wool cloaks for the occasion, and were murmuring among each other, presumably wondering at what they would be doing with Potter's followers.

"You will remove any enchantments you have on you immediately," Voldemort commanded. As soon as the first word had escaped his mouth, they were silent; he did not need to call for attention. "This will interfere with the wards, and I do not want any of you imbeciles to mess this up. Our safety is of the highest priority, and we cannot afford for this to fall flat. Lord Potter and I will be maintaining the bulk of the spell, but you all shall keep your wands raised towards the sky; this will focus your magical energy on contributing to the wards that are being created. You will likely not hear most of the words that Lord Potter and I are saying, and this is intended. When we do shout out a word or a phrase, you will all repeat this. It does not need to be perfectly in time, but there must not be anybody who speaks completely separate from the group. You are to spread yourselves about each property we are warding, so that there is magic concentrated evenly about for the wards to hold. Other than that, it is your task to stay focused on your magic. Is this understood?"

"Yes, My Lord," the group responded in unison.

As he approached Lord Potter, he saw that Potter was indeed briefing his followers on the task, mercifully. Once he had finished, there was a scattered response of "Yes, My Lord" in a completely unorganised manner. Voldemort sneered at the group.

"Lord Voldemort," Potter greeted, unfazed by his hostility. "Are we to begin the fire?"

Voldemort nodded his head once in response, and walked back away from the man, to the furthermost point of the property. He then drew his wand, and began to chant.

"Afi o le puipuiga  
Afi o le puipuiga  
Afi o le puipuiga"

As he chanted, he paced around the outskirts of the property, marking the border. Soon, where he had pointed his wand, a black fire started to follow him. It creeped, and creeped, and creeped, a scorching black heat against the icy white cold beneath it, but it never caught up with his pace.

The heat of the fire spread across the extent of the space they were warding, the snow becoming wet and mushy beneath his feet by the time he had reached where Potter had started and finished his half of the circle. Once he was sure that Potter had connected the circle of fire completely, he apparated to the roof of the building, and Potter quickly joined him. Potter, fortunately, seemed too involved in his work to make mind-numbing small-talk. Back to back, they stood firmly on the roof, and aimed their wands to the sky, and began to chant in unison.

They had practiced the chanting for hours leading up to this so that there would be no mistakes, and while Voldemort did not think that Potter was anywhere near perfect in the way he ran his life, he could damn well perform spotlessly when it really mattered. They waved their wands around in the air, forming runes from many different cultures, drawing upon their magic, their followers' magic, and the magic of the earth, and a shimmering cover began to form above their heads.

Potter's warding style was a near opposite to Voldemort's; it was the manifestation of chaos, and as he was warding alongside him, he could feel, more than he could see, the mad weave of magic forming, with no apparent structure to it. Voldemort's, on the other hand, was deceptively ordered. It was meant to look so, so that anybody trying to decode the wards would think that they would able to, they would think they could see the pattern, when the true pattern lay beneath in a complicated and tightly woven weave of magical thread. Though the contrast was so stark, it did not come to be a problem; their warding styles complemented each other, their magic dancing to and throw in the air and ducking and diving around each other in a complicated routine that made no sense but looked like perfection. He was so involved in the intricacy of the web that they were weaving that when him and Potter shouted out to their followers', he barely acknowledged their response.

Once they had finished, the property hummed with power, and Voldemort knew that they had been successful. Nobody would even come close to being able to break through the wards.

And so, working on their magical adrenaline, they all apparated to the next hold. And the next. And the next. Repeating the process for every hold that Dumbledore may know of or be able to find out about. This took some time, as Potter had a fair few different bases, and so it had long gone dark by the time they were finished.

"Report to the manor," Voldemort instructed his followers. "You will be presenting your reports to me when I arrive. They had better be good."

They all apparated, just as Potter approached him. He was holding a candle to create some light, and though it must have been charmed to resist the winds, it was quickly dying. Voldemort wandered why the man had not just used his wand, but he could see the faint glow of other candles where his followers were gathered, and so that must have had something to do with it.

"You've sent them off already, have you?" Potter laughed. "That's a shame, they could've had some hot cocoa!" He lifted up what appeared to be a flask. Voldemort blanched.

"What in Merlin's name is that?" Voldemort bit out.

"Hot cocoa! This has been draining work!" Potter exclaimed. "Would you like some?"

"No. I absolutely would not. The Dark Lord Voldemort does not sit around drinking  _hot cocoa_."

Potter just shrugged. "Your loss."

The man conjured himself a mug and began to drink. There was silence. Potter did not leave. Voldemort was considering leaving himself when the man spoke again.

"There's a connotation around the title Dark Lord," Potter mused.

Voldemort just stared at him.

"Everyone, even some of my followers, expects me to be cold, ruthless, careless about anything other than getting my political ideals into the majority belief. They expect me to be… well, like you, I suppose!" he laughed.

Voldemort supposed he should have felt some sense of offense at this, but he did not. After all, it was largely an accurate assessment of his attitudes; he himself believed that these were the appropriate characteristics of a Dark Lord.

"But… I'm not. I'm not that, is that so wrong?"

"No," he responded softly, before he had even thought about doing so. The tenderness of his voice surprised even himself, but Potter seemed unaffected.

"The truth of the matter is that I'm scared. I shouldn't be scared. Dark Lords do not get scared. But I  _am_  scared. I'm scared for my people. I'm scared that my followers will get hurt, will get killed. I'm scared that I'll fail them. Is that so wrong?"

He thought before he responded this time. "You won't fail them." It was not particularly in his nature to reassure people, but he truly did believe that Potter would succeed.

The man turned around then, and smiled a brilliant smile at Voldemort. It left an uncomfortable feeling at the pit of his stomach, and yet for some reason he could not bring himself to feel irritated.

"No, we won't fail," Potter agreed. "I suppose you'd better get off to your followers then?"

Voldemort nodded, once. He looked down on Potter for another moment, observing how his smile left his eyes bright despite the darkness, how he had managed to get some chocolate on the corner of his lip, how a small moth which must have been attracted to the light was dancing about his hair. He had never seen somebody look so human. He had never felt so human himself.

Looking away from the man, he apparated to his manor, suddenly a lot less inclined to hear his followers.

* * *

This time, a dark forest was illuminated by a blinding white fire. Surrounding the fire was a large group, their loyalty indistinguishable; the followers of both sides had joined together once again, to carry out a group ritual for strength. It had been Harry's idea, a few weeks after the warding, having found the ritual in his studies of group charms, and he felt that it may ease some of the anxiety he had been feeling about protecting his followers. And it was only right, of course, to invite Voldemort's followers too, though the forest could barely hold them; there was a long way over a hundred Dark witches and wizards in total. Harry noted with joy that they all seemed to be getting on quite well, making polite conversation. Voldemort, he could tell, was not feeling so friendly, but it was not of great importance. He was likely just irritated by the friendliness shown by his own followers to Harry's, Voldemort was funny like that.

Despite the sharp white fire which was cutting through the air in a violent manner, the forest was a warm black. They were in the dead centre, and there had not been any signs of life other than the bare trees around them, a few crows flying up above. Despite the complete emptiness of the area, Harry felt a great thrum of power through his body, perhaps in anticipation of the ritual. The magic within him was jumping about, ready for an outlet to present itself. He had always been a powerful wizard; that much had been evident in the powerful outbursts of accidental magic that had occurred under his uncle's abuse. But over the years, he had learnt to tame it, to control it, so most people could not sense it. This was useful, because his type of politics did not work when one party was fearful of the other. Rarely did his magic break free of restraints, but he found that it did so when he was speaking. He was passionate, naturally, and so his magic would seep out and swirl around him excitedly. He suspected that this helped rather a lot with the impact of his speeches; it would not be of great surprise to him if his magic was saturated with compulsion, and it was inevitable that this would influence the audience. Had such a thing been occurring on purpose, Harry had no doubt that he would be caught and fined heavily for such a crime, but it was not something that he could help, and as such, people rarely noticed it.

In anticipation, the large group of Dark witches and wizards starting to form a spiral, with the fire at the centre. Harry and Voldemort were the first two from the fire, as they were undoubtedly the most powerful, and therefore were placed to help centre the magic. The ritual was not difficult, by any means, to complete. Or at least, not for everyone but Harry. Harry would speak, and then Voldemort would speak, and then the person behind him would speak, and so on. Harry, however, had a series of complicated actions to carry out towards the fire. If he went wrong, he went very wrong. Once the ritual was complete, each person had to step into the fire, Harry first. It was appropriate, he supposed, that should he go wrong, he would be the only one to be affected – and by affected, he meant burnt to a crisp – and it was certainly a motivation to focus. He was sure, though, that he would not go wrong. He had practiced it many times, and he had not gone wrong on a ritual in years.

After signalling for silence, the ritual began. Harry felt the magic thrum pleasantly in and out of his body, feeling at peace with its movements. He then lifted his wand, and made the first symbol over the fire.

"Fortitudo ignis" he stated loudly.

After a short pause, Voldemort repeated the phrase, and Harry made the symbol each time it was said around the spiral.

"Dona nobis" he said this time, and stayed attentive as it travelled around in circles. His magic was buzzing inside of him in excitement.

"Rogamus fortitude."

"Rogamus benedictionem."

"Robore silvae."

"Join nobis."

As the last person spoke, Harry felt a warmth go through him from his chest and outwards, settling like perspiration on his skin. His heart was beating rapidly, and he knew that he had done the ritual correctly. He could already feel the power he had gained. But of course, he first needed to walk through the fire; and he did.

It was, unexpectedly, uncomfortably hot. He had thought that he might be completely relieved of the physical effects of fire, but this was not the case. He was not, however, burning to his death, and this was certainly a plus. Once he had walked through, Voldemort followed, and the line progressed around until everybody had walked through the fire. As the last person stepped through, the flames extinguished themselves, and the ritual was complete. Both Harry and Voldemort's followers were practically glowing with excitement, especially Harry's, and they were happily chatting once again with each other, seemingly very pleased at their new strength.

Weaving through the masses, Harry found Voldemort.

"Thank you for the participation of you and your followers in this ritual, Lord Voldemort," Harry said, smiling at the man.

"It was a pleasure, Lord Potter," Voldemort inclined his head, but otherwise appeared impassive.

"Would you be willing to accompany me for some further discussions this evening?" Harry asked, knowing that Voldemort would not appreciate small talk.

Voldemort stared him down for a moment. "Are you just trying to con me into joining you for drinks again?" He accused, eyes narrowed slightly.

"Ah," Harry laughed, feeling himself flush lightly. "I wasn't aware that it was that easy to see through me. Yes, I would like for you to join me for drinks, if you do not have anything of importance to attend to first."

There was a pause, as Harry was so used to by now with the man, and it seemed like he was refraining from sighing; instead he merely breathed out gently. "If giving in to such petty requests makes you easier to work with, then I suppose I shall have to for my own sanity."

Harry grinned at him, suspecting that his attitudes on the matter were not completely sincere. Voldemort enjoyed his company, as much as he would not admit it.

Since Voldemort had participated in the making of the new wards, he was now keyed in and so did not need Harry's assistance to apparate directly into the drawing room. As Voldemort sat down comfortably in what was by now established as his preferred armchair, Harry headed towards the drinks cabinet.

"What do you fancy?" he called behind him as he pulled himself a glass out for whiskey and started to scan the bottles available.

"A red wine will do," Voldemort responded, just as Harry wrapped his hand around a bottle of firewhiskey. "Do you always drink this heavy?" he asked.

Harry froze. It was a completely innocent question, in reality, but it felt a lot like an accusation and weighed heavily down on his chest. Lin's voice rang in his ear about alcohol dependency, and slowly he released his grip on the whiskey bottle. He did not always drink this heavy. But it was becoming increasingly frequent recently. Of course, it was no surprise that Voldemort had noted it – he had a keen eye on everything that went on around him – but it was embarrassing all the same. He replaced the whiskey glass casually, and replaced it with two wine glasses. He was a bloody Dark Lord, he could damn well control his alcohol consumption, surely.

"Not really," Harry responded nonchalantly, though he suspected Voldemort saw right through the casualness of his tone. "It's more of a stress thing."

Voldemort did not respond to his, and Harry was grateful, though he was sure that the man was doing a great many calculations in his head as to Harry's behaviour and the potential meanings of it. Both men sat in silence for a long time, gently sipping at their wine. Voldemort, Harry started to realise, was just as strained as Harry was. He certainly did not look it, of course, having far too much control over his features to reveal such emotion, but he could feel it. After having interacted with Voldemort's magic recently, Harry was beginning to recognise it, and he could tell from this that Voldemort was feeling the stress of the war.

They sat in silence for an hour, in the end. Which was quite something, as Harry liked to talk rather a lot. But at this point, he did not feel inclined to, and so the two men sat quietly, and yet Harry felt like they were bonding all the same. Which, come to think of it, was perhaps not a good thing. Naturally it would make it a lot easier to work together in the upcoming war; that point could not be disputed. But Harry was finding it more and more difficult to ignore the feeling of attraction he had in Voldemort's presence. The man was  _hot_ , to put it crudely, and Harry found himself thinking about the Dark Lord when he was alone at night, and even during the day! The strong jaws, the mesmerising eyes – it was everything Harry had in him not to openly stare and start drooling right there and then. More concerning, however, was when he was not thinking about kissing those soft pink lips and biting playfully at his neck and ramming him over the armchair. It would have been completely acceptable and more than natural if those were the only thoughts he had about the man. But he had been thinking about Voldemort's background and his childhood, how he spoke so softly and gentle, how when Harry was stressed sometimes he had the urge to find him and  _hug_ him. It was beyond disturbing.  _He tortures muggles_ , Harry suddenly thought to himself, as if that would make the other thoughts go away. It did not. It only made them all the more confusing, as he had no idea how he was allowing himself to have such tender thoughts about a man who had committed such terrible acts of bigotry.

Merlin, he needed another drink.

On the topic of muggles though. It needed dealing with, it simply could not be ignored.

"Lord Voldemort," Harry started, and Voldemort tilted his head in acknowledgement. "I am aware that it is a, ah, something of a sensitive topic, but I really feel that there needs to be a discussion on the treatment of muggles."

"No discussion is needed, Lord Potter. They are scum, and thus my followers have every right to treat them as such."

Harry frowned. It was a mystery to him how he would ever bring Voldemort around to his way of seeing, but he hoped that it may still come with age."

"Whether that be the case or not," Harry continued, determined, "public opinion is not exactly on your side. It is still very much frowned upon to kill and torture muggles, and it is almost certainly a good idea to stop doing it while Dumbledore is still a threat. You surely know that the inhumane treatment of muggles is a very effective weapon against our cause."

"Not if nobody is caught," Voldemort responded, looking almost disinterested in the conversation.

"But they do get caught! It was not long ago that two of your followers were arrested for such behaviour!"

Voldemort's eyes darkened at this, and he spoke a little harsher. "That problem has been dealt with, Lord Potter, and is frankly none of your business."

"Do you even want to win this? Or do you just want another excuse to carry out your perverse torture fantasies on others? Because I cannot work alongside you if you insist on this nonsense of mindless torture and murder!"

Voldemort opened his mouth to respond, but Lin opened the door then, bowing to them both. Harry was surprised that Voldemort did not continue to speak anyway, usually not having much consideration for those he perceived lower than him, but perhaps he did not have much of a response.

"My Lord," he greeted.

"What is it, Lin?" he asked.

"We have received a tip that Dumbledore is planning to make an anti-Dark speech within the coming week that will establish his opinion on a war against our kind. It would be my advice to publish our own work, and quickly."

"Thank you, Lin. You may go."

Lin vacated the room, and Harry turned to Voldemort with an exasperated sigh.

"I suppose I have no choice then. But I would appreciate it if we could negotiate the matter further."

"It would be a pleasure," Voldemort said, but Harry could tell he was barely keeping his composure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I clearly have no control over the length of my chapters, I'm sorry it's so erratic! Voldemort is.. a weird character, really. It's hard to tell what's really going on in his head, but honestly I think he would have dreams, but meaningful ones. "Mind exercises" and such. And Harry? Harry is just cares, bless him. I'm really enjoying writing them though, hope you're enjoying reading them!
> 
> I've been forgetting to post this chapter for over a week. I am, quite frankly, a mess. But here it is. Arrived, on your screens.


	8. Chapter 8

Albus Dumbledore – Uncovered  
by Linda Corner

We all know the man. Even the most uninformed of us will have had him as a Professor of Transfiguration or Headmaster of Hogwarts. Those of us who are fans of Chocolate Frog cards will know a couple more details about his defeat of Grindelwald and his achievements in alchemy. Those of us involved in politics will be aware of his active role in the Wizengamot, working with many of his colleagues to assume a Light agenda in Britain – successfully so, despite the many setbacks presented by Dark Lord Potter and his pressure group. With such a man there seems to be a great many things to know – for example, did you know that Albus Dumbledore is the first recorded wizard to have had an academic text published while he was still attending Hogwarts? – and yet no matter how much one learns about him, one never learns about  _him_. Because who is Dumbledore, anyway, and why is he such an important part of our lives? Most significantly, however, is the question of  _should_  he be so important? Recently sources have been leaked to the Daily Prophet about the man's past that I don't think you'll be expecting… Though, let's be honest, we all knew that nobody could be as perfect as Dumbledore seems to be.

The first reports that we received were centred around Dumbledore's powers as headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As headmaster, it is Dumbledore's duty to create a balanced curriculum (which is approved by the Board of Governors), and to protect his students. Obviously he has other responsibilities, but this is the role of the headmaster in its simplest form. We have reason to believe that Dumbledore is failing in both of these aspects.

When we first received information on Dumbledore's questionable behaviour (the real scandal, readers, which will be revealed to you in due time), we wanted to do some digging. The first place we went to was the Hogwarts Board of Governors, knowing that they would work closely with the man. Many of them seemed just as enamoured with the man as the rest of the country is, but a few were willing to anonymously reveal to us that they  _frequently_  have to turn away curriculums due to them being too biased towards the Light. As disappointed as I was to learn this, I was not surprised. With Dumbledore's activities in the Wizengamot, it is not hard to believe that he wants to bring politics into his headmaster role, indoctrinating his beliefs into the malleable minds of our children.

This already having weighed on the conscience of these poor souls, fearful of speaking out against the admired man, they had something else to tell us, of the most alarming nature. According to these anonymous Governors, it is said that while it is fortunately uncommon, there will occasionally be a student who confides in the staff about living in an abusive home. As you can imagine, these children see Hogwarts as a safe haven from their lives of abuse, but towards the summer dread returning home.

It might seem natural to us that the best course of action would be to relocate these children to a safer home – find kind hearted wizarding families to take them in, or allow them to stay at Hogwarts over the summer (as there is almost always members of staff still present, preparing for the coming year). Not to one Albus Dumbledore; a man with the staunchest belief in love, reportedly cannot comprehend how one's own family could be abusive, and so disregards these children as over exaggerating or lying, repeatedly sending them back to their abusive families each summer.

Terrible news indeed, readers, and I am sure that you are already disturbed to the extreme from my reports. I wish as much as you do that they were untrue, but I am equally unwilling to silence the troubled voices that these reports have come from. But prepare yourselves – there is worse to come. We may at this point be questioning Dumbledore's ability to empathise, despite him seeming such a grandfatherly character. Well, readers, from an anonymous source we have uncovered information on an illicit love affair with none other than Gellert Grindelwald in his youth.

That's right – Albus Dumbledore had a love affair with Gellert Grindelwald.

To find out more about this affair, we spoke Lord Potter, who worked closely with Dumbledore to defeat the terrorist. We asked if Lord Potter knew of this affair, to which he answered us:

"Yes. I was never told directly, but it was obvious; Dumbledore may well still have had feelings for him, may  _now_  still have feelings for him."

This is a confirmation as any that Dumbledore had close ties to Grindelwald in his youth. Lord Potter has always been a preacher of the truth, despite being naturally biased to Dark, and certainly would not be expected to lie about such an accusation. Lord Potter had more to say on the matter:

"It's tragic, really. It was difficult for him to fight against his ex-lover at all, I'm sure, but it always felt off. I know Dumbledore well, he's a very powerful man; do you not think that he would have had the power to kill Grindelwald?"

I told Lord Potter that I agreed, Dumbledore should have been able to kill Grindelwald.

"It's often assumed that my parents were killed by supporters by Grindelwald, and I assume this too, and so I had a very personal tie to the fight. I, along with hundreds and hundreds of families across Europe, wanted justice. Grindelwald was the cause of so much death and destruction, so much pain, he deserved to die. But where is he now? In a prison, because his ex-lover did not have it in him to kill him. That, to me, is the most tragic part of this affair. That it has affected Dumbledore's idea of justice."

It was amazing to see such a powerful figure as Dark Lord Potter talk about his own past, his own wish for justice, and this gives us perhaps a stronger idea of just how significant news of this affair is. We are all shocked to discover that Dumbledore could be so terrible as to love a man who surely had already established his ideals for terrorising Europe. But the issue is bigger than that – because of Dumbledore's perverted interest in this murderer, Grindelwald is sat alive in a prison cell, with no thought given to those that had lost so much during his war.

 

Ignatius was incredibly disturbed by what he was reading. He knew that he should not have picked up the paper in the first place, should not have turned to this page, but he was burning with curiosity. Corner was right – he did not know much about Dumbledore, despite how close he was to the man. But this was ridiculous. It was surely a load of garbage. Propaganda for the upcoming war; Lord Potter even was quoted, it must be Dark propaganda…

Not that The Daily Prophet was known for Dark leanings.

The accusations just did not seem right to him. Dumbledore was a kind hearted man, a father or even grandfather figure to everybody he knew, he genuinely  _cared_  about the people… But Ignatius could not dispute the information he had been given either.

On cue, the fire turned a bright green and Dumbledore stepped through the threshold of the fireplace.

"Ignatius, my good friend!" Dumbledore cheerfully greeted, acting as if he had not just walked into somebody's home invited. "How are you faring?"

Ignatius blanched. How could Dumbledore be so casual after such horrific allegations had been made against him? "Have you not read today's edition of The Prophet?" he asked, astounded.

Dumbledore laughed. "Why of course I have! It is important to stay on top of things in these times."

"But… these accusations against you, they're absolutely horrific!" Ignatius floundered. If he had been the victim of such media abuse he would be hiding away in his home refusing to speak to anybody but his wife, not making merry visits to his friends.

"Ah, they are indeed," Dumbledore agreed, still seeming unfazed. "Fortunately for me, it does not matter what the papers say about me. Well, it does a bit. But the people who truly matter at the very least know that it's a great ton of rubbish, don't they? So what have I to worry about?"

Ignatius gave an internal sigh of relief. So it truly was all just lies. Dumbledore's casual manner was suddenly comforting – the innocent have nothing to fear, naturally. He no longer had to worry about the issues presented, he could push them out of his mind now.

"How is dear Lucretia, my friend? I see that she is otherwise occupied this morning," Dumbledore commented with a warm smile.

"She's very well, thank you. She has taken the day to meet with her sister, and so left early this morning," he answered, happy to fall back on easier topics.

"I am pleased to hear it," Dumbledore smiled. "It is too rare these days that we spend good time with our families. I dare say it has been a while since you have visited your parents?"

"Ah," Ignatius looked down at his feet. "You do have an uncanny ability to sense these things, Albus. Yes, perhaps I was a bit too sharp with them last time we spoke. It is difficult, though, to return under such circumstances."

"Yes, yes, I understand," Dumbledore nodded sympathetically. "We cannot always make time for our families, as much as we would like to."

"Lucretia, I think, is worried about the war."

Dumbledore suddenly looked worn. "Indeed, I am not surprised. We all are, in our own way."

"It will be okay though. These… these villains," Ignatius said, unsure of how exactly to describe the enemy that he truly knew little about. "We can stop them, can we not?"

"Of course, my dear friend," Dumbledore reassured. "With love and determination, we will do right by magical Britain."

* * *

"If we infiltrate the Light, we can end the war before it has even started. There are silent, discreet ways of finding these people and giving them unsuspicious deaths. Dumbledore, even, if we're clever enough about it," Voldemort was arguing, a maniacal glint in his eye.

"It would be far more beneficial for us to go  _above_  these people though. The public are not going to view us favourably–"

"The public won't  _know_ ," Voldemort interrupted.

"Nobody will view us favourably if we end up killing the opposition while they aren't looking – it just isn't honourable! There are international organisations to deal with, whose favour we need, and we will not keep this favour if all of our opposition just  _happen_  to die." Harry finished, gritting his teeth.

"Ridiculous. I have no care for international bodies, and they  _won't know_ , do you have no trust in my power? It can be done so that no suspicion may be turned on us, if carried out properly. It is incredibly easy to spot anyone with a Light affiliation, it's in their aura, and over time we can make a list and slowly reduce their numbers, especially the ones involved with Dumbledore–"

"You want to purge  _every_  bloody Light witch and wizard in the country?!" Harry exclaimed, astounded. "Are you mad?"

Voldemort seethed. "They are  _filth_  upon  _earth_  and they are  _in our way_. The public will see less and less of them, and it may even begin to be associated with illness, and slowly they will be put off using the magic at all, and we will over time be left with no opposition, and any remaining opposition will be low in morale."

Harry gaped at the man. "You cannot  _wipe out_  all Light magic users! Have you paid no attention to what I've said about the magical balance? We can't bloody just shift it the other way – we have to be equal! Equality is not gained by psychologically manipulating innocent people into using a magic that they are not comfortable with!"

"It's the most efficient way of winning the war!" Voldemort countered, his voice taking on a hissing quality.

"It's just not moral! If you allow me to go to an international level –"

" _Sod_  your international politics, it's utterly useless!"

"It would be more efficient and more moral to speak to global Lights and to try to convince them that Dumbledore's war is a war against magic, putting us all in danger, then Dumbledore won't get a chance to retaliate with violence, it's far more efficient and far more moral!"

"There is no way that any Light magic user is going to listen to you, you're a Dark Lord, they wouldn't trust you with the time of day. These people are enemies to us, and they know it just as well as we do. There's no point in negotiating, we just need to get into the thick of fighting before they do."

"But the war will cost both them and us lives! They  _can_  be reasoned with, we just need to find a way to fight the Light politically."

"We've been fighting the Light politically for decades and it has not been working; now, when Dumbledore, a respected Light figure worldwide, wants to make moves against it, trying to keep peace is a complete waste of time."

The meeting had started an hour ago, but it seemed that they had reached an impasse with this issue. While Harry and Voldemort were unrelentingly pushing their ideas back and forth, Lin and Abraxas Malfoy were sat between them, looking rather like they were watching a game of tennis. At the start of the meeting, they had both been in a comfortable enough position to make suggestions and contribute to the discussion, but at this point they were far too intimidated to even think about doing so, and so kept silent as the two Dark Lords waged a verbal war against each other. Harry felt bad at the back of his mind, usually putting in an effort to make his followers feel respected, but he knew that Lin would not take it personally, and Harry had far more important things to worry about. Voldemort was being completely intransigent, refusing even the slightest compromise or even bothering to listen to Harry. When he had reached his limit, Harry interrupted Voldemort mid-sentence.

"Lin, Malfoy, you will leave us," he bit out in a tone that did not allow for disobedience, feeling his magic scratching at his insides.

The two followers did as they were told, closing the door firmly behind them, and leaving Harry alone with Voldemort.

"You  _dare_  order about my follower?" Voldemort growled, already worked up from the debate.

"I assure you, Lord Voldemort, it was only in your best interests. I wouldn't want one of your followers to witness any further embarrassment on your part this evening," Harry sneered in return, striding purposefully back to the table, by this point covered in unorganised parchment.

Voldemort seemed to inflate, ready to bite back venomously, but Harry spoke before he could.

"You need to get a fucking grip over yourself; all this terrorist madness about  _killing_  all potential opposition just to get the war over with quicker. You're as bad as the muggles." Voldemort's eyes flashed dangerously, but Harry continued. "The worst part of it is, it isn't even decent military tactic. You're not thinking about the war, you're thinking about yourself. You feel increasingly out of control, and you don't know how to get it back, and so you're desperately reaching for more in your plan to commit genocide of Light magic users. But I will  _not_  stand for it. Your personal issues should have no role in this war, and certainly should not be the cause of so many innocent deaths."

" _I_  am the one allowing my personal issues to interfere with the war?" Voldemort retorted, deridingly. "I have no issue with control; I have far more control than you could ever dream of. And here you are, trying to relate yourself to me. You've seen similarity in our childhoods, you think that your issues will be present in me, and so you're displacing them onto me in the hopes that finally, after living for  _so long_  without parents to relate to, you can relate to me. It's pathetic, the way you're letting your own emotions interfere with your perception of  _my_  behaviour, and you have the nerve to suggest that I'm the one letting my problems distract from the war? Look at yourself, you're a mess."

Harry felt bile in his throat. "How  _dare_  you bring my parents into this; you are  _constantly_  trying to psychologically manipulate everyone around you for you to step over them, quietly ignoring your own psychological issues." He strode over to where Voldemort was stood. "Because of  _emotions_ , I was able to deal with my problems decades ago. I no longer need to relate to anybody. You, on the other hand, are lacking, because not once in your life have you allowed yourself to even admit that your problems exist. Forgive me, Voldemort," he spat, snaking his fingers around the man's wrist to pry his hand from where it was gripping the back of one of Harry's chairs, "for using my own experience, my own  _wisdom,_  to see the warning signs in you."

" _Of course_ ," Voldemort seethed. He snatched his hand away from Harry's, and pushed him away, only to approach him again. "How foolish of me not to realise that  _really_  emotions just clear everything up, rather than distracting from the issue at its basest form. I cannot believe how long I have gone thinking that not filling my mind with petty wonderings over what people think of me and how  _damaged_  I must be from my past, and how right  _you_  are to make such assumptions of me!" Voldemort shot his hand to grab Harry's arm but Harry was quicker, dodging the attack and starting to move around the other man. "No. I will not take responsibility for your issues, Potter; muggles and Light magic users are filth upon the earth, and I am only doing a favour for the wizarding world by cleansing our society of them."

Harry laughed harshly still circling Voldemort predatorily, until Voldemort began to move with him. "I cannot believe that you don't see how perverse your mind actually is; nobody who isn't damaged lusts after the genocide of half of his own people like you do. You are constantly controlled by your emotions, by your past, and you can't even tell because you're always trying to repress it. Your very  _soul_  has been physically harmed by your inability to heal from your past! You have two fucking horcruxes; that is not sane." The two were moving in a dance-like manner, at points getting close enough to touch and then suddenly repelling each other once again. Harry could feel his magic jumping in and out of his core, licking the air to taste Voldemort's equally active magic, reporting back excitedly to Harry.

"My horcruxes give me everything that every pathetic being alive has ever wished for – immortality. I am a  _god_  among you pathetic beings! The very fact that I had the  _power_  to create a horcrux places me above every person who walks this earth! I am stronger than you will ever be because  _I cannot die_."

Voldemort was almost pressed against Harry at his point, using the closeness to talk down onto him, a smug look on his face and a powerful glint in his eyes. Harry, for his part, was sickened further.

"You are disgusting," he hissed, placing his hand firmly on Voldemort's chest, slowly tracing down before violently pushing the man away further. "You are  _human_ , just like every person around you, and have no right to lord over the population just because you were  _stupid_  enough to split your soul in some child's dream of living forever. Realising that your time on earth is limited is a part of growing up, and your inability to grasp this is just further evidence of your stunted maturity."

"Do you really expect me to put up with this shit from  _you_?" Voldemort ground out, pinning Harry against the wall with his whole body.

"I expect you to deal with your own shit, to be frank," Harry retorted, grabbing his neck with one hand and shoulder with the other, swinging them around so that the position was reversed. He could feel the heat of anger in his body, nearly shaking from it, overpowering him and his senses.

A small growl rose from the back of Voldemort's throat, finding himself unable to push Harry off him this time. The two were unmoving for a moment, and Harry could feel their chests heaving heavily against each other, proof of the exertion that they had not realised. The eye contact that they had developed had not yet broken, and Harry noted that Voldemort's pupils were slightly diluted from the argument, wondering if his were the same. There was also a hint of fear, and suddenly Harry felt guilty holding him down, when he had already acknowledged that Voldemort clearly had issues with control. Perhaps there was something to the argument that he needed more control himself, if he was to help Voldemort with his problems. Not that he should  _have_  to do such a thing, but somebody needed to be the adult.

"How about we compromise, hm?" Harry asked carefully, not yet removing himself. "I will go to the Light. I will attempt to make a diplomatic approach, and this will be our Plan A. Meanwhile, you place your people in positions of power; government and education. They can start to subtly work on unravelling Dumbledore's propaganda on the public. We will try our hardest to make this a war of cunning and political manoeuvres. You're the Heir of Slytherin, I'm sure you can handle that." He stepped away.

Voldemort said nothing, opting instead to leave the room in silence. Harry knew that this meant a reluctant agreement to the terms; Voldemort did not like to be ordered around, but Harry was no different. They would just have to learn to cope with the fact that over the coming months, maybe even years, they will not always be the one giving the orders.

* * *

Just under a month had passed, with the Dark working on their communications and publishing articles to the public. It had become obvious, by this point, that there was an internal war waging in wizarding Britain, though no person had been harmed. To Harry's great relief, the media had so far not come to the rescue of the Light; most conservative forces in the media seemed to favour the idea of restoring old magical traditions, despite the Light still in theory representing the status quo. Harry had spent a lot of this time preparing for his meeting with the European Light Associates. They were a strong influence, equal to that of the Eurpoean Convention of Dark Magic on a continental scale, and more so within Britain. If Harry could get through to them, explain the risk to global magic, then maybe the war could end before it had properly started. They did, however, have a reputation for being incredibly biased towards Dark magic users, as many Lights tended to be.

As Harry stepped into the building for his meeting, he immediately felt uncomfortable. He had expected to feel as such, naturally, but the reality of it was far stronger. The building itself was nice enough; the walls were light and clean, adorned with tasteful artwork and hangings, and the furniture was comfortable and welcoming. The aura was what was upsetting Harry's stomach. The place was saturated with Light magic, oozing off every surface and filling Harry's lungs, a suffocating tightness around him putting him immediately on guard. Light environments always were this way. The Lights themselves could sense him, too, and tensed in response. He could feel, rather see, the sudden tension that took over the room as he stepped in; his own magic was whirling possessively and protectively around him, sending an entirely unintentional message of hostility. This was why negotiating with the Light was always so difficult. While in a neutral environment, Harry's magic could reach out to people and appeal to their own magic, seducing the magical cores in the room into considering his points, but in a Light environment such as this his magic repelled the people around him. The woman who led him into the meeting room made no eye contact, and shrugged off Harry's attempts at conversation.

In the smaller room, the intensity of his intrusion was stronger still, and some of the members of the group physically shifted uncomfortably.

"Good afternoon," Harry greeted politely, making a small bow. "Lord Potter, here to discuss the concerns I have over Albus Dumbledore, a man who is arguably answerable first and foremost to your organisation."

"Do come in, Lord Potter," beckoned a French wizard. "Please sit down. My name is Alban Pascal; we have been anticipating your arrival. We are eager to listen to your views in order to form closer ties with the Dark."

 _Yeah right_ , Harry thought sarcastically as he took his seat; the Light had never been particularly accommodating of the Dark, and he much doubted they intended to start so suddenly.

"We do wonder, though, why you did not take this matter to the International Confederation of Wizards," Pascal continued.

"The International Confederation does not much care for these matters," Harry responded. "Though it is of great importance to my country and in my opinion to the world, I doubt that I would be able to convince the Supreme Mugwump of its importance."

"I see. Well, do continue, please."

"Dumbledore wants to wage an all-out war against Dark magic, and is taking steps further than his usual political moves. It is said that he has been working on building up a Light magic army in order to defeat the Dark. I understand that you all having Light cores yourself, you may not immediately frown at this. However, my concern lies in the effect that this will have on the global balance of magic. Do your recall why the Supreme Mugwump is always a Light wizard?"

The people sat around the table shook their heads.

"It was long ago, of course. But we all know that centuries earlier to the society which we now live in, the Dark wizards had a stronger balance of power. Their power grew over time, until finally they decided that they did not  _need_  Light wizards. One particularly nasty character wanted to get rid of them. They did so, by revealing them to the muggle world, and they started being hunted. This one act shifted the balance of magic completely out. People's magic started to weaken, there was an increase in the birth of squibs worldwide; the magical community went into chaos. Eventually, this was solved by the overthrowing of the Dark leadership. The Light replaced them, with the thoughts that the Light wizards would never repeat such a disastrous event. But people have forgotten, and this is the exact same thing that Dumbledore wants to do. I know that it is not your responsibility to look after the Dark. But with all the power you have, you can prevent the unbalance of magic as Dumbledore is intending to create. You can stop our communities falling into disarray and panic."

The table sat in silence for a moment, and Harry could tell already that he had lost. They did not believe him, and worst of all, they did not care.

"Do you have any evidence of this 'Light army' you say Dumbledore is forming?" one of the wizards asked.

"There is no documented evidence – of course there isn't – but there are numerous eyewitness accounts of Dumbledore speaking to large groups of people, stirring discontent and spreading lies about the Dark. Everything Dumbledore has ever done in politics would lead one to believe that he intends to wipe out Dark magic."

"And you say that he intends to threaten the lives of Dark magic users?" another asked.

"Yes."

"Has any Dark wizard or witch yet been harmed?"

"No, not yet," Harry admitted, "but it would be too late to try to  _prevent_  it once it had already started! This is going to happen if left alone, is it so much to ask that you prevent it?" he argued desperately.

"I know Dumbledore well," said a German man. "He is a good man. All Dumbledore has ever wanted is for muggles and muggleborns to feel welcome in this society; if he is doing that by reducing the power of those who would discriminate against anything muggle, why should we try to stop him?"

Many of the members nodded, agreeing.

"Because Dark magic users are people!" Harry exclaimed. "They deserve to be treated with respect just as much, and it is still  _murder_  when people try to kill us!"

They did not look convinced, and Harry felt anger rise up inside him.  _They don't even see_ me _as a person, do they?_  He thought bitterly to himself.

"Dumbledore has spilt no magical blood," Pascal spoke up again. "We will not consider taking action until he does; your petty fears are of no concern to us."

Rage.

Harry swiftly stood from his chair and marched from the room, paying no mind as the people around him cowered from his snapping magic.

He apparated directly into Voldemort's meeting room, where he was addressing his followers.

"The Light do not care for our lives," he proclaimed venomously to the other Dark Lord. "We will not be the first to draw blood, but as soon as the first drop spills we will have no choice but respond according to this disregard for our rights. If it is war that they want, it is war that they will have."

The predatory grin that appeared on Voldemort's features only fuelled the fire raging in Harry's heart.

* * *

Gaunt Shack was exactly as Voldemort remembered it; the very building being strangled by nettles, the walls concave and many tiles having been torn off by the sharp wind. As he approached, boots squelching in the wet moss, he felt within him the same anxiety that he had felt when he had first visited. The surrounding trees felt like they were drinking his oxygen instead of providing it, towering over him and casting his mind in shadows. The door was hanging off its hinges, the dead snake still stubbornly attached; a grotesque symbol of pride in the Gaunt line. Stepping in, he was assaulted by the smell of the rotting food – was this reality or his memory of it? He would have thought that decades later any food would have been devoured by hungry rodents, and indeed a thin rat ran past his feet as the thought crossed his mind. The floor itself was slippery with grime, and the cobwebs above him acted almost as a replacement for the tiles that were no longer present on the roof. On the table Voldemort saw the single candle that had lit up his meeting with his uncle, but Morfin was no present.  _He is dead_ , Voldemort reminded himself. And yet suddenly he could hear the hissed words echoing in his head, or in the room, he could not tell.

' _That whore Merope, dirtying the family name_ '

And suddenly Voldemort wanted to drain the filthy blood from his body

' _Running off with some muggle, surely planning to create some dirty little illegitimate_ '

It did not matter to him, not anymore

' _That slut, that filthy slut_ '

The voices stopped. Instead, chilling silence. In the corner of the room, Voldemort noticed a movement, and there stood Merope Gaunt. Her lank, dirty hair seemed to weigh her head down, and her eyes were closed while she muttered to herself.

' _Why do they hate the muggles?_ ' she seemed to whimper sadly. ' _They're so charming and superior, the way the hold themselves. Why can't I be like them? I have just as much magic as them, I'm a useless witch, and I don't even have the beauty of muggles_ '

Voldemort stepped back in disgust at this image of his mother. Self-hatred welled inside him as he thought of being descended from somebody who had such repulsive beliefs. And yet he had to remind himself that this was not a true image; he had no memory of his own of his mother, and the ones he took from Morfin never presented her saying such things. But he knew that if his mind had created her, it surely was not far off her likeness, and he certainly would not be surprised to discover she had said those very words.

 _I hate muggles_ , he thought to himself,  _I hate them and I know I hate them, and I don't need to like them, they're filth... And I care far too much about them. They should be naught but dirt beneath my shoes, how have I developed such a burning hatred? It's almost_ _embarrassing_

Her eyes snapped open.

Instead of the muddy brown that he had seen from his uncle's memories, he was being stared at by bright green eyes, unblinking.

' _How could I hate muggles when they allowed me to create something as beautiful as you, my precious Tom?_ '

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter down.. as usual, let me know what you think about my characterisation. I'm hoping that I'm doing alright at the whole development thing, but who knows, I'm not paid for this. We're just over halfway through now!


	9. Chapter 9

It was many more months before Voldemort found himself and his force confronting Dumbledore's light. It was nearing the end of summer, official war having been declared the previous winter, and Voldemort had been leading a select few of his followers, along with two of Potter's followers, through the Highlands. They were in search of a man who had been tipped off as an old friend of Dumbledore's, but not one that necessarily agreed with his current activities, and were hoping to be able to confirm that he would not fight against them. It would, of course, have made more sense to send Potter, as he was the more diplomatic of the two Dark Lords, but he was otherwise occupied doing Salazar knows what, seeming confident that Voldemort would be able to do the job.

It was drizzling, soaking their clothes, and the long grass was uncomfortable to walk through, but Voldemort was sure that they were getting closer.

They were not far from their destination when Voldemort heard them. He had demanded absolute silence from the followers accompanying him, and so he was able to lock immediately on the other sound. A group of people. Disorganised squelching heading towards them from around the hill. Somebody grumbling about the weather. The one falsely friendly voice that grated against Voldemort like nails on a chalk board.

"Defensive position," he murmured in instruction.

He stopped, and let the followers organise themselves neatly behind him. They drew their wands, but held them loosely to the side. A warning, but not a threat.

When Dumbledore and his followers came into sight, the three Light wizards with him drew their wands, and pointed them threateningly, a contrast. Dumbledore continued towards them, unconcerned that his force was half the size of Voldemort's.

"I must confess, I was not expecting to run into you here," Dumbledore said, an approachable smile in place. "To what do we owe the honour?"

"We, too, were not expecting company; you have only a twisted form of fate to thank," Voldemort responded, donning a charming smile.

"A delightful coincidence. I was merely visiting an old friend of mine here, but I cannot think why I might see you in the same area." There was a curious twinkle in his eye, but Voldemort knew that he already suspected they came of a similar purpose.

"It is a pleasant walking spot," Voldemort stated, challenging the old man to question him outright. "We have been a tad unfortunate with the weather."

"That you have," Dumbledore agreed.

A tense silence fell, the only sound coming from the nervous shuffling of Dumbledore's men.

Dumbledore and Voldemort were both charmers, each having a mask to lure others into their way of thinking, but they had never fooled each other; clashing from the very beginning.

"As lovely as this little meeting has been, I would very much like to get on and see my friend, if you don't mind," Dumbledore smiled, clearly meaning for the wands to be put away.

"You wouldn't leave us so soon, would you?" Voldemort asked, taking a step forwards.

Dumbledore was powerful, and he would not have made any threat had he been alone with the man. Voldemort's force, however, was stronger than Dumbledore's, and so they could certainly all get out of a scuffle largely unharmed. Most of all, Voldemort did not want Dumbledore getting through to his friend. It certainly would not tip the balance out of proportion, but it would be a small victory that Voldemort did not want to allow.

"Pair and attack," Voldemort called. "No mortalities. Rosier, with me."

His and Potter's followers ran at Dumbledore's, quickly establishing a partner and a victim, while Dumbledore's followers scattered, unprepared for the sudden attack. Rosier was the most powerful with him, and so he called upon her to assist in distracting Dumbledore. Dumbledore could not be defeated in a duel such as this, he knew, but he needed only to keep the man away from the other battles breaking out. With both Voldemort and Rosier attacking mercilessly, Dumbledore had time only to effectively deflect each curse, yet he still did so with ease.

"This is all quite unnecessary, my boy" Dumbledore said while wordlessly defending himself.

"You have declared war upon our magic; you cannot expect peace," Voldemort laughed, narrowly dodging one of the older man's spells.

"If you would stop killing innocent muggles, perhaps I may not have had an issue with your way of life."

"They are  _fil_ -" Voldemort stopped himself, somehow at odds with himself. "You don't care about the dirt, you only care about keeping Light the dominant magic in Britain, you fraud," he spat instead, venomously, as he continued to fling offensive spells at the man.

Dumbledore was about to respond when an unseen force disarmed them all, leaving them stranded and defenceless. Voldemort and Dumbledore could, of course, carry out wandless magic, but it was clear that somebody wanted them to stop fighting – somebody powerful enough to disarm eleven witches and wizards, including two of the most powerful wizards in the country.

In the near silence, Voldemort could hear the approach of another towards the group. When he came into sight, Dumbledore smiled genially.

"Clarence, my old friend," he greeted warmly.

The other man was not so friendly in his greeting. "You have not given me cause to hear you out once again, Albus," he said sternly. "It was unwise of you to attempt to find me after having left on such bad terms last time."

"It would not do to go on without even trying to make amends, do you not think?" Dumbledore responded hopefully, but his shoulders had dropped lightly in disappointment already.

"You do not come with the hopes of mending our friendship. You come out of need, a desire to add to the force of your side in a war which I want no part in. You will leave me, and take your enemies away with you."

The elderly man spoke with finality, and Voldemort was pleased. It was clear that he would not be supporting Dumbledore; there would be no negotiations needed. Voldemort turned to his group.

"I'm satisfied. Return to your own occupations unless summoned once more."

After the resounding cracks from those he had brought with him, Voldemort himself turned on the spot and apparated to Potter's headquarters in order to report back.

When he appeared in the foyer, he was informed that Potter had not yet returned from what he was doing, and so he made his own way into the drawing room. It had become something of a tradition for the two of them to discuss all matters in that room, drinks being offered dependent on the situation. Voldemort had been granted access to the drinks cabinet after a while, having spent so much time around it, but that was not where Voldemort wanted to go this time. Potter was marginally better to talk to when he had not be drinking hard liquor. Instead, he called for a house elf to make tea, then sitting down to wait for the other man to arrive.

His fingers twitched a little as he took his cup, but he acted as if they had not. He had not killed any muggles in a long while, but that was no reason for him to behave any differently. He did not  _need_  to kill, it was only a hobby… Though, it was possible that he had a heightened desire for it as a side-effect of the horcruxes. But he was above side-effects, above petty dependence, and he did not  _need_  to kill to make himself feel better.

It was not long before Potter arrived, walking jauntily into the room, eyes brighter than death.

"Good afternoon, Lord Voldemort," he greeted, slumping down in his own chair.

"Lord Potter," Voldemort responded, inclining his head.

"No dark cloud above your head today, I take it the meeting went well?" he asked, pouring himself a cup of tea.

Voldemort resisted a sigh at the taunting. "There was no meeting with Dumbledore's friend. We ran into Dumbledore himself, along with a sparse collection of his forces; there was a small commotion, which attracted the attention of this friend, who made it very clear to the old man that he would not be taking part in the war."

"I see," Potter grimaced, clearly torn between relief and frustration. "Please tell me it wasn't you who started the fight."

"It was," Voldemort stated almost boastfully, affronted by the negativity Potter was displaying at such a notion. "Dumbledore would not have left without us leaving first, and I was not certain at the time that Dumbledore would not be able to convince his friend of joining his force. I did what I had to do for the success of our mission. You cannot possibly blame me for that."

Potter's sigh grated harshly against Voldemort's nerves. "Was anybody hurt?"

"No."

"I'm glad to hear that as well. I suppose I can't have everything go my way – it was unfortunate that Dumbledore thought to find his friend at the same time as us."

It was frustrating to Voldemort that Potter was not willing to accept his success, but it did not matter greatly. Voldemort knew that he had fought as any Dark Lord should have, and did not need the approval of Potter of all people. He did not need the approval of anyone.

They sat for a moment, drinking tea, and Voldemort found himself drawn to the movement of Potter's neck as he swallowed. He had always been fascinated by the human body – being what attracted him to physical torture – but Potter's seemed more mesmerising than any average body. He moved with a contradictory heavy grace, bounding around like a grim yet each uncoordinated movement sliding peacefully into the other.

"What were you doing today?" Voldemort asked, forcing himself out of his thoughts, unwilling to accept the physical fascination he had with Potter and the slight desire to see how his neck would react to excessive pressure.

"Working on relations," Potter answered vaguely, taking another sip of his tea. "I was successful in gaining the support of some significant British centrists. It's important still to maintain presence in the democratic political picture."

"I see," he responded, never having been particularly interested in democracy. "Better you than me, I suppose."

"Indeed!" Potter laughed, for some reason finding Voldemort's words amusing. "It is not so bad, really. It's all in false smiles and manipulation, I can imagine you quite enjoying it really."

"I don't see why I should have to put the effort into convincing people I'm right; I find it tedious and frustrating. They should be able to tell I'm right just from knowing my opinion."

Potter laughed even harder, this time. "Oh if only things were that easy, eh? It's a good job we have freedom of speech to counteract nut-cases like you."

Voldemort said nothing to this, scowling. He was not really offended though; he knew that Potter did not mean it, and he was safe in the knowledge that the other man was more of a nut-case than he was.

Once they had finished the tea, Voldemort got up to leave. It was around five, and he was wanting to finish his paperwork before he ate.

"Hey, don't go," Potter protested, standing up with him.

"Your desire for my presence is flattering, Lord Potter, but I do in fact have work to do," Voldemort said.

"Don't be ridiculous, you have all evening to do that. Stay for a bit longer; I'm hosting a dinner for my followers, you would be very welcome to join us."

Resistance was futile, Voldemort knew that much. He had no choice but to accept the offer, despite how he would despise spending his dinner with Potter's group of loud Europeans.

"Very well then," he said, resigned, though reluctance did not colour his words as he might have expected it to.

* * *

Winter had come around again, and on the 18th of November 1956, Harry and Voldemort had set out to make an important alliance. On this date was the largest full moon of the year, and so the werewolf packs of Great Britain were at their most powerful. Leading up to the event, they would be at their most irritable, but afterwards they would be feeling the greatest levels of relief. The two Dark Lords intended to make use of both; the werewolves would still be bitter from having little access to potions and care from the government in order to ease their suffering before the full moon, but happy enough to consider listening to what they had to say. The werewolves were unlikely to make an alliance with the Light, those being the ones to have a deep mistrust of the packs, but it would be beneficial to get them on their side all the same. The werewolves were strong creatures, and ideal allies in combat.

Harry and Voldemort waited at the border of the territory, Harry wearing a thick coat to ward off the cold – Voldemort had turned his nose up at the idea of adding layers like a muggle when he could just use a strong heating charm to keep him warm. It was not long before a man came bounding towards them, barefoot and only wearing a pair of jeans for decency.

"Harry!" he greeted, tackling the man with a strong embrace, "brilliant to see you again!"

"I've missed you, Lucas, it's been too long," Harry responded, smiling warmly. Voldemort, to his right, he noticed was looking uncomfortable.

"Come on, let's meet the pack," Lucas continued, grabbing Harry's hand and tugging him into the forest. Voldemort followed at a steady pace behind.

Lucas was still more of a child than a man, really, in Harry's eyes. He had been only fifteen when he had his first transformation, only two years ago. Harry had been introduced to him not long after. Lucas had been distraught about it at first, unwilling to go outside, but Harry had been able to talk him out of it. Lucas had been brought up with quite prejudiced beliefs about werewolves, and feared everybody felt that way, but Harry had shown him otherwise. He had introduced him to a pack he knew of, one which was well experienced with aiding younger members, and Lucas had never forgotten him. Over the past two years they had met about four or five times, but each meeting Lucas had grown to be more and more happy and confident.

As they walked, Lucas chatted excitedly to Harry about what had been going on in his life; his friendships, his adventures, his possible love life, and anything one would expect from the average seventeen-year-old boy. Further into the territory of the pack, they were walking past other members, many of whom sent an amused look towards Lucas, often followed by a wary glance at Voldemort. Eventually, Lucas dropped Harry's hand, leaving the two wizards stood politely, and bounded instead towards a woman wearing a shirt and jeans.

"Martha!" Lucas exclaims, "I've brought them to you, it's Harry and one of his friends!"

"I know, Lucas," Martha smiled, "they made an appointment with me four weeks ago."

Lucas did not seem fazed, and Martha walked towards Harry and Voldemort.

"Miss Lang?" Harry enquired, reaching out to shake her hand.

"You may call me Martha," she corrected, shaking firmly. Martha then turned to Voldemort, extending her hand. "Lord Voldemort, yes?"

"Yes." Voldemort shook her hand curtly, and Harry frowned. They had gone through werewolf etiquette together leading up to this meeting, and Harry had thought that it had been understood by both parties. He was not surprised though, that Voldemort was struggling with the friendly image; he had not seen the man as open and friendly to anyone.

"Shall we discuss somewhere more sheltered?" Martha led the two men to a wooden hut, where they sat on wobbly wooden chairs. "I take it that you are here for assistance in your war," she stated.

"You saw through it that easily, did you?" Harry smiled.

"Of course. And you must know, Harry, that my pack is very keen to help you. I myself am always inclined to assist you, and Lucas has been going on about nothing but for months. The rest of the pack see you very much in favour, and would not show any resistance to our interference in the war."

"I am very glad to hear that," Harry responded.

"We will be making a contribution to your side at some point, this much is certain, and we will be able to get other packs involved as well. I only wish first to express my doubts in your friend."

Harry said nothing. He had not been expecting this to be part of the discussions, and Voldemort was nowhere near prepared for it; Harry had not yet had a chance to reason with him about his view of muggles and muggleborn.

"Lord Voldemort," she started, verging on hostile. "I have heard much rumour about your attitudes. There are muggleborn werewolves in my pack that I have an obligation to protect; can you guarantee such protection?"

"I expect that these werewolves of yours are able to look after themselves, Miss Lang. I hold no such obligation as you do, but I can assure you that there would be no occurrence of infighting within the Dark."

Martha tensed, and Harry felt his heart sink.  _Why does Voldemort have to be such a bigot?_  He thought morosely to himself.

"Lord Voldemort, you do not seem to understand the significance of this. If you and your people will not respect my pack, then my pack will not want to fight for you. We demand respect."

"I would have thought that you better understood your own position," Voldemort retorted. "The Dark gaining strength in our country's politics is beneficial to you in gaining basic rights – you are the ones that need us, not the other way around."

"Voldemort, that is quite enough," Harry ground out darkly. "We are here to affirm the alliance of  _my trusted friends_ , not to treat them with such a disgusting display of disrespect that they'd be tempted to join Dumbledore. I have no further need for you in this discussion. I will expect to find you in the meeting room of my Wales base."

"You haven't the authority to send me away," Voldemort seethed.

"You will leave, or else there will be at least ten werewolves willing to chase you out for me."

Eyes glowing, Voldemort stood, and apparated on the spot.

"I'm so, so sorry, Martha," Harry said after a deep breath. "I was honestly expecting him to be reasonable."

"It's okay," she soothed, looking calmer after Voldemort had left. "I can see that you have some control over him. Make sure that he will not cause any problems among my wolves, and we will have no problems in helping you fight."

"Thank you," Harry replied, relieved. "It has been good to see you again."

"And you. Would you like Lucas to take you back to the border?"

"That would be wonderful," he grinned.

* * *

When Harry arrived back, he could already feel Voldemort's fury, having only grown in the past ten minutes. That was not Harry's priority, however, so he first went to find Lin in his office. The man was reading through a pile of documentation, but looked up when Harry stepped in.

"How'd it go?" he asked, putting the parchment on the desk.

"Good. Martha wants to help, she didn't need much convincing. The only problem was Voldemort. I think I managed to piss him off quite a bit." Harry sighed.

"Hm, yes I did see him looking rather put out."

"He's a liability, Lin. The man's a passionate genius when he wants to be; he could charm a Manticore, but he's too unpredictable. He didn't seem to be capable of showing respect to the werewolf pack, and Martha's concerned that his followers will show the same level of disrespect to her kind."

"It may seem hard now, but at the end of it you will see how far you have come. You have already made great strides in taming the beast, my friend."

"Thanks, Lin. Guess I should go give that a try now."

He left his friend once more, and made his way to the meeting room, glad that Voldemort had chosen to follow his instructions on at least this occasion. The man was sat regally on the end chair, rigid but for his eyes following Harry's entrance, burning in anger.

"I do wonder, Potter," he started before Harry could speak, "why you bother to bring me along to these things if you do not care for my input. Why you bother referring to me as your equal, when you treat me as a mere follower. Worse in fact – your followers get more respect. Do you dare call me a man while you treat me as a child?"

"I think you're overreacting," Harry said, nearing Voldemort's place warily.

"Do you really? Can you imagine, Potter, how humiliating it is to be spoken to in the way you speak to me, in front of a potential ally no less? There are barely ten years between us and yet you act as if there is a century."

"I am not trying to humiliate or disrespect you, Voldemort," Harry responded, growing frustrated. "I am merely reacting in the time that I have to do so; when you are belittling our potential ally, showing disregard to her people and unravelling what friendship with her that I have developed in my years of establishing myself, I have little choice. We will not pretend that either of us are any more powerful overall than the other, but you cannot fool yourself into thinking that you are equal to me in the matter of relations. You were there because we need to be seen as a united force, but I had no choice but to send you away when your disadvantages began to outweigh your advantages."

Voldemort rose swiftly at this, gripping Harry's hair and pulling on it slightly. Harry felt his face flush and a startled gasp escaped him. This only made Voldemort tug more, and brought his lips to Harry's ear.

"You think that you have more maturity than me, that you are superior; I can tell." He murmured sensually, sending shivers down Harry's spine. "But I have bested you before and I can again. How do you think I managed to get the vampires on my side? I have power, and while it is not beneficial to me to use this power against my ally during this war, you should watch yourself once it's over. You will not think me a child then."

He released Harry's hair and disappeared.

Harry's knees wobbled but he refused to fall. No matter how hot he had felt in that moment, he would never admit that he had enjoyed Voldemort holding him by the hair like that.

_I would top, I would fucking top. Never Voldemort._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love werewolves by the way. I wish I had time to put them more into this story? Maybe I can make it work.
> 
> Also. Did I hear Dark Lords in denial? Yes I think I did.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SPOILER ALERT!!!!!!!!!! Just a warning for mature content at the end of this chapter.

They were sneaky about it, Voldemort would at least admit that. The first spell fired was from the direction of Knockturn Alley, making it look like it had come from one of the Dark, but Voldemort and his troop knew otherwise; they were under strict instruction not to attack unless attacked first. Now they were in open combat in Diagon Alley. It was a dangerous place for the Dark side to be, as the Aurors would undoubtedly arrive eventually. The Aurors were the only department in the Ministry that Voldemort was not yet certain he had in his hands. There were some of his members involved, but he suspected a few were also Light spies. Still, this meant that it was possible that they could be taken under custody in the event of Aurors arriving. There would be anti-apparation and anti-portkey wards. They would be stuck, and they would need to fight their way out. Ideally, Voldemort wanted to be able to gain a victory against the Light before any Ministry officials turned up.

Though there had been few to begin with, Voldemort had summoned all of his forces, they had managed to get hold of the werewolves and those who could join the fight had done so. Those of Potter's who had been carrying out inside tasks deemed non-essential were also present. Unfortunately, Voldemort had not had the time to convince the Polish vampire clan to engage in open combat with them, but their numbers meant that this was not a great loss. The two sides had spent hours upon hours of military training, and so they were organised and efficient against Dumbledore's weaker force. The current problem, however, was the public. Voldemort had reluctantly fallen into agreement with Potter about their appearance to the public; the public was not their enemy, but their allies. And so, Voldemort was juggling with sending off curses to the Light forces and trying to work out where the public was hiding. Ideally, he needed them completely out of the way of the fighting, and warded against wayward spells. He found that most were in shops, which was a great help, but some were still out on the streets, huddled in groups.

He was weaving in and out of people, up and down the long street, eyes everywhere; sending curses at Lights, shouting instructions at his troops, and setting up powerful wards around the public while soothing them about the situation. It was a difficult task, especially since dealing with the public was not something that Voldemort was used to doing – in fact, he should not have been doing it. In their training, this was not what his role was. Voldemort was supposed to focus on giving orders, mobilising the forces, putting his attention where it was most useful. Unfortunately, the person who was supposed to be reassuring the public and keeping them safe was glaringly absent.

But Voldemort did not have time to be pissed off at Potter's absence. Dumbledore's forces were stronger than they had anticipated, and were holding on for much longer than Voldemort wanted. The duelling was fierce, and even though Voldemort helped where he could, many of his people were gaining injuries. They were strong fighters, but they needed more instruction, Voldemort could tell, and while he was doing his best, he could not be everywhere at once. As much as he wanted just to leave the people to fend for themselves, there was something in him urging him to continue, Potter's voice reminding him about public appearance.

Suddenly Voldemort spotted a man stood alone in the centre of the action. He was holding no wand; an innocent, then. A particularly stupid one. Voldemort made his way towards him, deflecting curses when he could and aiding his forces in their duels as he went by. When he reached the man he immediately put up a basic ward around them.

"Let me get you to safety," he said with a charming but soothing smile.

Wand out, he negotiated the two of them around the people, trying to protect the man as best as he could until he got to a safer area. It must have been only a fraction of a second that his attention was away from the fighting, but just as he turned to place a final ward around the innocent, he felt a sharp sting hit his arm.

It had shocked him, rarely being hit in any circumstance, but he did not have time to sit in his shock. He left the man, re-entering the thick of the battle. It was not long after that the Light called a retreat, apparating away. Wasting no time, Voldemort called his forces to vacate; in his last millisecond in Diagon Alley, he saw the Aurors arrive. It had been an incredibly close fight.

 _Potter is going to fucking get it_ , he thought bitterly.

* * *

Harry felt the adrenaline coursing through him as he made his way to the Wizengamot. He was getting more than a few fearful stares, and he was surprised that he was allowed to make his own way there, not accompanied by a Ministry official. The Ministry was full of Light and moderate magicals, even if he did have some support in the Wizengamot, and so many would be wary at seeing the high profile Dark Lord, especially months into the civil war as they were. It might have been a stupid idea, really, organising this meeting; he would not be surprised if it turned into a trial, accusing him of treason or such nonsense. It was for this reason that he had not informed Voldemort of his plan. The man would have outright refused to let Harry go, somehow blocking him from contacting the Ministry at all, ranting about how it was a suicide mission to even attempt it. But Harry would be fine. He hoped. If he was not exuding such a powerful aura to keep people away, Harry felt that he might have been cursed by the time he reached the lifts. As it was, everybody was too busy cowering in fear at his impatient stride, so much so that he even ended up in the lift on his own.

When he stepped into the Wizengamot, Harry was pleased to see that there was a fair number of Dark or moderate allies as they stood to greet him. It made him feel safe, certainly safer than he had felt when meeting the European Light Associates. He had not actually ever been in the room, strangely, and so he took a moment to admire it. The architecture was quite Victorian in style, but the ceiling was littered with twinkling lights, looking much like stars above him. There were rows of chairs and desks, seating the Wizengamot members, all facing another lone chair in front of a desk.

"Lord Potter, we are pleased to have your company today, do sit down" said a witch from the front, the spokesperson for the day.

Harry nodded in acknowledgement and took his seat at the lone desk.

"You must be aware, of course, that your opposition has had much opportunity already to speak with the Wizengamot, Lord Potter," she started.

"I am indeed aware of the advantage that they have being led by Professor Dumbledore," Harry acknowledged. "That is why I was so eager to be able to speak to you today."

"I am pleased to hear it. Some of our members have some concerns that they would wish to discuss with you today, in advance of our debate on the Ministry's involvement with the civil war you have engaged in. As it stands, Aurors are under instructions to assist in preventing and stopping outbreaks of violence that are linked to both groups, but there is an anxiety to know where you stand; there are many who wish to vote on taking sides."

"You all know my stance do you not? I cannot see one person in this room who I have not spoken to at some point, whether that be in person or as part of a speech. I stand for much the same things now as I have ever." Harry spoke, his voice echoing around the room.

"While that may be true, Lord Potter, we still wish to allow any clarification of your cause. May the first questioner stand."

Towards the back, a tall spindly man with very little hair stood, a sheet of parchment before him.

"Lord Potter," he spoke, gentle voice reaching Harry through the acoustics of the room. "It has ever been ambiguous what the Dark fight for. Sometimes it seems that they are fighting for their rights, sometimes as an excuse merely to use violent magic, sometimes out of bigotry. We all know that you are a principled man, who places a great deal of weight on the importance of democracy for all peoples, including the Dark creatures and practitioners of Dark magic. Democracy which is indeed a very muggle concept, one which is deemed radical by many witches and wizards, but gives hope to the people. I wonder, Lord Potter, if your principles will hold strong next to Lord Voldemort, who you have allied yourself with, who seems only to fight  _against_  what small idea we have of democracy we have today and who seems dedicated to the suffering of the muggle people." The shaky man then sat down, and Harry stood.

"Lord Voldemort is a very powerful man, and I will allow you that him and I do indeed have conflicting views on certain issues, and so I can understand any concern that I may allow him to overshadow my views and principles. But I assure you that this will not happen. While Lord Voldemort is very powerful, I too am a very powerful man, with a force just as strong as his own. He would be a fool to believe that he could step over me, after my decades of work in British and European politics. True it is not information open to public eye, but since the war has begun and the alliance formed, not one muggle has been harmed. Take this as a promise that I will not stand for any unnecessary violence towards this dangerous race, and that I do intend to assist this nation in living in peace with muggles."

It went on in such fashion for hours – Harry had had no clue that there were so many potential ways to word a question about his beliefs and Voldemort.

* * *

Voldemort's patience was just about reaching its limit when Potter walked through the door of the drawing room, and he rose menacingly from his chair. Potter, unfortunately, seemed to be oblivious to the danger.

"Thank Merlin you're here, I'm desperate for a drink," he said, reaching immediately for the cabinet, but Voldemort was one step ahead of him, splaying his hand across the man's chest and pushing him back against the door.

"Where the fuck have you been today?" Voldemort growled, drinking in the look of shock on Potter's face like he was parched.

"What does it matter?" Potter asked, frowning. "What do you need?"

Voldemort hissed in annoyance, his hand balling into a fist to grasp Potter's shirt threateningly. "I needed you to be in fucking command of your own damn army!"

"What?" He questioned meekly, but his body was tense.

"There was an attack in bloody  _Diagon Alley_  and you were prancing around doing who knows what, while I had to fucking cover for you, you imbecile!" Voldemort let go of his shirt and pushed him away, towards his desk.

Potter's mouth formed a small 'o', and his eyes were vacant. "Did we lose anybody?"

"I'll consider telling you that when you inform me of exactly what it was you were doing that was so much more important that defending your people against Dumbledore's forces!"

Potter's face contorted into a mixture of guilt and fear, and Voldemort approached him again, predatorily.

"I will find out, whether you tell me or not," Voldemort purred, finding a sick pleasure in the fear of such a powerful Dark Lord. The man needed taking down a peg or two, and he was thoroughly enjoying the task.

"I was speaking with the Wizengamot."

Voldemort's fury buzzed in his ears, blocking all his senses, and he found himself in equal parts surprised and aroused when he discovered he was suddenly holding Potter over a desk, one hand tightening around his neck, the man's face pressing into the surface.

"You could have been fucking killed, they could have imprisoned you, you could have been given the  _fucking kiss_ ," Voldemort hissed out. Through the rage he could see the emotion being coloured by a hint of fear, which only heightened the feeling.

"I was fine," Potter ground out against the wood. "It was essential that I went; if the Ministry decide that they are against us it could lose us the war."

"The Ministry is already Light, you could have been killed for your efforts. It was useless; we can fight the Ministry with  _half_  of our forces!" Voldemort fumed.

"You're overreacting, it was an important task! We have much potential of support in the Ministry, I've been working on it for years. I'm sorry I wasn't there for the battle, but it's over now. Just let me go and I'll get you a damn drink, alright?"

Voldemort threw Potter off the desk. "I have things to do."

He left for his base, intending to spend some time letting off steam and wishing he had the guts to torture Potter for all the torture he gave Voldemort. He was desperate for a muggle to kill, but the training room would have to do.

* * *

The Dark Lord Voldemort Saved My Life

For a long time, I had been lucky enough to say that I had never been in a fight. To an extent, this is still true, but on 25th April 1957, I became involved in the most horrific one I had ever seen.

Many of you of course know that on this day, a battle broke out between the Dark and Light militant forces in Diagon Alley, resulting in many injuries, civilian and fighter alike, and even a few deaths. One of those deaths could have been my own. It has taken me a day or two to get my head around that fact. I could have been just part of the statistics published in this very newspaper. But beyond what  _could_  have happened, I want to focus on why it didn't.

I know that there has been much debate over who fired the first spell, but I can honestly tell you that I have no idea – nor do I care. I was paralysed in fear the moment I realised what was breaking out around me. As a muggleborn, I had felt that there was no hope for me. One of the Dark wizards would recognise me, being a fairly well known writing for this paper, and they would off me then and there. There was a small hope that someone from the Light would interfere before I was killed, but I did not put much weight to that thought; everyone was so involved with their fighting. Morbid as it may seem, I was waiting for death.

As I saw the notorious Dark Lord Voldemort making his way towards me, this thought only strengthened. He is known for his hatred of everything muggle, me included, surely. I felt that this would be the end. I felt doomed.

But I was wrong.

It was not death that awaited me in the form of this powerful wizard, firing spells around him. It was hope. Lord Voldemort put a protego around me, and escorted me to safety to hide with other members of the public, as if it was the most natural thing for him to be doing.

Nobody else had seen me. Well, if they had, they were far too occupied to think of saving me. Nobody but one of the most powerful and feared men in this country, maybe even the world.

And readers, I do not consider myself a special case. I have spoken to countless survivors since the event. Some had found their own refuge in shops. Others had branded their wand and protected themselves. But a considerable few of the more vulnerable of us had each been saved by none other than Lord Voldemort himself.

Say what you will about their politics; when it comes down to it, the Dark care about magical blood.

-Jonathan Stone

Harry and Voldemort were sat in the drawing room days later, having once again settled their differences. As Voldemort scanned the article, his face contorted in disgust, and Harry laughed.

"You're a saviour!" He exclaimed.

"I am not impressed," Voldemort deadpanned in response. "This would not have happened if you had been there; I was doing  _your_  job."

"And that's what makes it so noble a thing to do! That poor man would have died for my foolishness had you not stepped in and saved him," Harry gushed, revelling in the way Voldemort squirmed in his seat as such a thought, despite his usual poised demeanour.

Harry had honestly been touched that Voldemort had taken on the role in his absence. When he had first given himself the task of escorting civilians away from the line of fire, Voldemort had scorned the idea, said it was petty and meaningless. But here, this article, was the proof that Voldemort was willing to put that aside even when Harry was not there to scold him, to see that the lives of the people do matter in the grand scheme of things. Furthermore, even though Voldemort was hardly to know it at the time, he had saved the life of a muggleborn – potentially multiple muggleborns.

"I am honestly disgusted," Voldemort sneered, "and because it is entirely your fault you will get me another drink."

"Yes master," Harry joked, getting up from his chair. "And may I add what an honour it is to be your house elf, master, a great honour indeed."

"If it's respect you desire, you should start turning up when you're needed in battle," Voldemort retorted, accepting his glass of wine.

"Regardless, you must admit that it is far better for our media coverage that  _you_  saved a muggleborn – everyone knows that I respect all magical people, but they're far more uncertain about you," Harry pointed out, sitting down with his own glass.

"As much as I hate to say that you're right," Voldemort sighed, not willing to finish the sentence. "You still owe me."

"Yeah, yeah," Harry waved it off, used to 'owing' Voldemort a great many things by now.

Silence fell for a moment, before Harry spoke again.

"What d'you think it'd be like if we weren't both Dark Lords with anger problems?" He asked, turning to Voldemort.

"I can honestly say that I've never once considered not being a Dark Lord with anger problems," Voldemort responded drily.

"Well, yeah, but that's because of your upbringing. Say we were adopted by magicals, or at least a decent pair of muggles if there's any out there. Raised normally, with unconditional love and support. Where do you think we'd be?"

Voldemort shut off momentarily, and Harry wondered if he had crossed a line by discussing upbringing. After a moment, though, he responded.

"I would like to think I'd be in better company than this," he smirked.

"Ha!" Harry laughed out loud. "There's no better company than me, I'm sorry to tell you. This is as good as it's going to get."

"Hm. Well that's a shame. Go on then, where would you be?"

Harry thought for a moment. "I used to want to be a writer," he admitted.

"A  _writer_?" Voldemort asked incredulously. "And turn out like this wet cloth?" he gestured to the newspaper still on the table.

"Hey, it might be fun!" Harry defended.

"I'd be the Minister of Magic. Or an Unspeakable."

"Of course you would," Harry rolled his eyes.

"You know I would."

* * *

In a late Spring evening, Harry and Lin decided to take a walk in a sparse forest. Walking over the blanket of flowers, it was a welcome respite to the stress of the conflict.

"It's been a while since we've spoken like this," Lin commented, his grey hair glinting slightly in the sun.

"It really has," Harry admitted guiltily.

"You've been spending a lot more of your time with Lord Voldemort, have you not?"

Harry felt his face heat up. "I- well- with the war, I mean, I know you're my right hand but I know you're loyal, and so I need to keep Voldemort happy, y'know?" Harry defended himself, feeling awful that he had neglected his closest friend.

"It's okay, Harry," Lin soothed, placing a hand on Harry's arm and stopping them. "I am not upset that you are focusing your efforts on Lord Voldemort – you are quite right to. It is merely nice to have some time like this."

"Right, yes," Harry agreed, and they started walking again.

"I have noticed he's become quite attached to you lately."

"In what way?" Harry asked, knowing better than to question his old friend's judgement.

"Lord Voldemort is not one for friendship; he would not spend so much time drinking in that little room of yours if he did not genuinely enjoy your company. His growing attraction to you is more obvious than he thinks, if one chooses to look. It might nearly be as obvious as your feelings for him soon enough."

Harry frowned. "My feelings for him aren't obvious!"

"Your feelings are an open book, my friend, I wouldn't be surprised if even Lord Voldemort's followers know that you'd happily be tied to the bedpost and fucked so hard you can't sit down for a week."

"Hey now!-" Harry protested, but Lin interrupted, grinning.

"My apologies, of course, you would top; you have always been very insistent on that."

Harry just scowled as they kept on walking.

"You know you can't hide from him forever. The war will only distract you for so long. What will the both of you do?" Lin prompted.

"There's no need to do anything," Harry said, though his heart clenched as he did so. "Go on the same as normal. I expect I'll still see him from time to time, what with politics."

"Whatever makes you happy."

It was a bitter thought, though, Harry knew. It would not make him happy. But he did not have a choice.

* * *

_**THIS IS THE SECTION THAT HAS MATURE CONTENT** _

The clock chimed once, indicating to Harry and Voldemort that they were a full hour past midnight, but they would not stop working. The single bell echoed loudly in Harry's head and he wished more than anything that he could just give up and go to bed.

But there was still work left to do, and it was imperative that it was done before daybreak. The war had raged on tirelessly for many months more; the Light had gained support from Sweden and America, but the Dark had countered this with the help of Germany, India, and the Polish vampire clans, much to the surprise of both sides. It was becoming messy, but further and further in, the Dark were gaining the upper hand.

Tomorrow – or later that very day according to the clock – they were hoping to corner the Light and defeat them. It would be hard, but Voldemort was confident that they were ready, and Harry could only accept this decision. They had been planning this decisive battle for a month, but there always seemed to be fine details to work on, and so they found themselves surrounded by empty vials from potions to keep them alert. By now, however, there was no hope in becoming any more awake.

"If we move Avery towards the front he'll be able to make use of his long-sightedness," Voldemort mumbled, scratching the quill against the parchment as he thought.

"But then we'll be blocking Dennison, and we need his abilities where he is," Harry pointed out; they had gone over this before.

"... Damn," Voldemort dipped his quill in ink again to cross the suggestion out.

"There's no point in us working any longer, Voldemort. We've exhausted our ideas for over a month now. We're as ready as we'll ever be."

"Hm," was the response, as good an agreement as any.

They stood over their work, scattered out on the meeting table, and stared at it in silence. This was it. This was the plan to end their war victoriously. It seemed far too simple, despite the plan's complexities and their years of efforts.

"It's not too late for you to get a horcrux."

In Harry's tired state, he had barely registered the words being spoken. More murmured, really. The cogs in his brain turned slowly over what had been said, until they came to a sudden stop. Harry tensed.

"What?" he asked, unwilling to believe he'd heard it correctly.

"I think you should get a horcrux."

The sentence had been reworded. Clarified. A pause. Harry processed the information again.

"What the fuck," he whispered in shock..

Voldemort was serious. He was staring at Harry intensely, too sincerely. He wanted Harry to make a horcrux. He was not joking. He wanted Harry to tear his soul, he wanted Harry to kil– he wanted Harry to have immortality.

He was hit by a storm of emotions, feeling as if he was a teenager again, losing control. He could feel his magic slipping through the barrier in place, escaping into the air around him, disrupting the peace. The table began to shake, the parchment shuffling from the disturbance. Voldemort was unaffected by this, holding Harry's gaze, refusing to back down.

"You could die. All this work we've put in; do you not want to build on our victory once it is over? What would happen to your friends, your followers, all your political work? Wouldn't you rather live forever?" Voldemort asked, sounding almost confused at Harry's reaction.

"No," Harry breathed, horrified. He had allowed himself to believe that Voldemort was fine, that he was safe and sane, but this... "You  _know_  what horcruxes do to the soul, how could you ask such a thing of me?"

"We've become quite close over the war, haven't we Harry?" he felt the breath empty his lungs as Voldemort spoke softly. "We've become friends, I don't have many friends. Wouldn't you do this for me?" Voldemort stepped forwards, eyes smouldering.

_Manipulating, manipulating, manipulating, manipulating_

"I wouldn't tear my soul for anybody," Harry bit out, stepping back.

Voldemort's expression did not change, and Harry had to work to get a hold of his thoughts. Yes, he was attracted to Voldemort. Yes, this request was probably triggered by a genuine attraction in return. But Harry could not let this distort his principles, his purpose. He had not let such a thing happen for decades, and it would never again. He was a grown man, he was a  _Dark Lord_. He would not be manipulated, even if he was dealing with the Heir of Slytherin. Voldemort would not  _seduce_  him into tearing his soul.

"Come on now, Harry," Voldemort practically purred, stepping towards Harry once again and tentatively brushing his hand against his cheek. "I know you've noticed what there is between us. You want it just as much as I do. Make a horcrux, for me," and in that moment Voldemort looked almost like a lost puppy, and Harry was at complete loss for words.

The touch, the cold hand against his face was making his pulse quicken, his face heating more and more in each moment. It was almost too much to bear.

When Voldemort leaned down to kiss him, however, it was too much. Soft, warm lips against his own, gentle but possessive. His heart fluttered and the heat that was concentrated in his face rushed around his body, filling him with adrenaline and desire.

"I can make it sweet and gentle, Harry," Voldemort murmured against his lips, and then spoke in parseltongue " _I can feel your desire to be with me._ "

Harry's magic swelled in response, and barely aware of what he was doing he had wandlessly flung Voldemort across the room, the latter looking stunned. Harry took his turn to prowl towards the other man, dragging him up and pressing him against the wall.

"I think that you have severely misjudged the nature of my desires, Voldemort," he said lightly, pressing himself up against the Dark Lord. "I do not bow to anybody, least of all the subjects of my desires, and I do not do  _gentle_." Then, leaning in to Voldemort's ear, he hissed " _and the language of the snakes does not intimidate me_."

Voldemort did not have much time to react to Harry's use of parseltongue before Harry crashed their lips together violently, allowing himself to completely give in, revelling in the way Voldemort responded eagerly, grinding against him.

His heart was beating so strongly that he was sure Voldemort could feel it like a heard of buffalo on his chest, and the desperate kisses only grew in intensity, both men desiring more. Harry broke away from the kiss, bringing his hands around to remove Voldemort's robe, then tearing at the buttons of the shirt beneath it, exposing the man's toned torso, his chest rising and falling heavily in desire. Harry's distraction at the body he had been imagining each night for so many months, however, led him to a disadvantage, and Voldemort began to push Harry down onto a chair, climbing onto him and reaching to suck at Harry's neck.

He could feel the entirety of the man's weight pressing down painfully on his thighs, the back of the chair digging into his spine, smell the sweat from the training earlier in the day and the current arousal, but all of this only heightened his own pleasure, letting out breathy gasps as Voldemort sucked at the sensitive spot beneath his chin.

" _Make a horcrux, Harry_ ," Voldemort hissed, the sibilant words causing a spark in his arousal.

" _Never_ ," Harry hissed back determinedly, and with all of his weight pushed him and Voldemort off of the chair and onto the floor, quickly pinning Voldemort's arms down above his head.

The subsequent kiss was somehow even more violent, Harry taking Voldemort's bottom lip between his teeth and eliciting a sharp exhale of breath from the other. Using one hand to keep Voldemort's arms down - a struggle for all that the man was protesting the restraint - Harry used his other hand to unbutton Voldemort's trousers, throwing the man's shoes and socks off in order to tug them down, though in doing so he lost his place over the man.

Left only in his boxers, Voldemort looked more human than Harry had ever seen him, and more magnificent. He watched the way his arm muscles flexed as the man claimed his place over Harry once again, hungrily removing his clothes, frustrated at the inequality. Voldemort seemed fascinated with his body, sucking and biting the tender flesh of his stomach, nowhere near as firm as Voldemort's, running his hands over the soft pale skin almost obsessively, and Harry recognised from the glint in Voldemort's eye that his brain was working a mile a second trying to memorise every inch.

Growing impatient, Harry tugged Voldemort back down by the neck into another heated kiss, grasping the man's soft hair and tugging at it desperately, earning an unintelligible hiss from Voldemort.

Rubbing himself against the fitter man, the sweat sliding their thighs over each other and matting his leg hair, Harry felt himself wondering and worrying at what may actually happen in their battle. Would this be their first and final embrace? Would they be parting ways for good once it was over?

Voldemort was obviously having no such anxieties, as he rose himself to carefully remove Harry's boxers, then moving on to his own. He then grabbed Harry's wrist demandingly and brought it to himself, placing his own hand around Harry firmly, before leaning down to suck sensually at Harry's neck again as they rubbed each other almost clumsily, slipping with the wetness of each other. He was in ecstasy all the same, letting out a shuddering breath as Voldemort felt him, almost sighing at the pleasure. Harry's free hand was restless, gripping at Voldemort's thighs, marvelling at their strength, wandering over hardened nipples, a gasp in response to him circling them teasingly, clawing against his back desperately, until Harry let go of Voldemort completely, moving from under him and letting him fall to the floor, hair flopped over his face, body rising and falling with each laboured breath.

Tentatively, Harry placed himself over Voldemort, feeling his arse cheeks almost as a request. Covering his fingers with saliva, the only crude form of lubricant he could think of in the moment, he carefully felt around Voldemort's entrance. Voldemort hissed sharply at the touch, but leaned into it, and so Harry entered his fingers experimentally. Warmth pulsed through him as he felt Voldemort's whole body react to his movement, but the man was clearly determined not to show how affected he was by it. As Harry removed his fingers, he shifted his hips forward. He had done this many, many times, but never had he been so concerned about getting it perfect. Voldemort, for all of his flaws, deserved perfect in this moment. He entered Voldemort slowly at first, letting the man get used to the intrusion, then began to rock his hips, pushing further inside each time.

"Ah," Voldemort gasped, and Harry rocked harder at the sweet sound of victory.

Other than the first sound, however, the only noise in the room was the occasional soft grunt and the wet sound of Harry thrusting in and out of Voldemort. Despite the pleasure of it all, there was a part of him – and a part of Voldemort as well, probably – that felt an anxiety at it. Their coming together was so joyful and made Harry feel more alive than he had felt in a very long time, but Voldemort was still Voldemort, and Harry knew that he could not just end their problems with a good fuck. But in the moment, in those early hours of the morning where it felt like they were the only two people on the whole of the Earth, none of that mattered.

As Harry reached his climax he dug his nails into Voldemort's sides, chin falling to his chest as the blood left his head, leaving him feeling dizzy and happy. Not finished yet, he rolled Voldemort back over, grasping at him again and rubbing against the slick skin. He then leant down and took Voldemort in his mouth, running his tongue over the tip teasingly and sucking lightly. It was not long before Voldemort also reached his climax, and Harry fell back onto the floor, panting slightly.

Though they both lay for a few moments, he was vaguely aware of the other man getting up off the floor tentatively, walking over to where Harry had strewn his clothes in order to dress himself again. He looked over, watching the robotic motions of dressing, Voldemort's face betraying no emotions. The only give away was the way his lips were still moving nervously, and the way his Adam's apple would bob from time to time.

"I will see you at the final briefing, Potter," he said quietly. His voice was as smooth and baritone as ever, and Harry would have thought that he had completely shut off if not for the way his voice broke over his name.

The final battle would be incredibly tough for the both of them. Voldemort felt that having the backup of horcruxes made him better off, but Harry was sure that the man was just as nervous as he was.

The crack of apparation was enough to snap Harry out of it long enough for him to stand, taking a look at the wooden floor.  _I best not leave this for the house elves,_  he thought, casting a basic cleaning spell over the wet looking area he had just vacated. He then found his handkerchief and wiped himself clean before putting his clothes back on slowly and lazily, ready for sleep.

As he walked along the corridor, he slowed down as he saw Lin approaching him.

"Uh, hi," Harry greeted, knowing that he would not be successful in coming across collected but hoping that Lin would attribute it to the war.

Lin looked Harry up and down, then raised a brow. "Perhaps you should glamour those love bites before tomorrow, Harry. We wouldn't want anyone thinking you weren't dedicating all of your free hours to planning."

Harry felt his face go hot. "Um, yeah. That's a good plan. Thanks, Lin."

"No problem," he smiled, before walking off once again and leaving Harry well and truly humiliated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that that scene was acceptable, I felt like they were ready but it seems so quick at the same time! Anyway, I am well aware that had it been me reading this fic I may well give up at this point... which is bad, but hey we all live for the sex scenes. But I promise you there is a lot more character development still to go through, so please do stick with me!


	11. Chapter 11

It was not long after they defeated the Light, Dumbledore in too weak-a-position to justify a valid opposition and severely deprived of public support, that Harry was needed for a long few months in Russia. It was poor timing, all things considered. Harry ought to have been in Britain clearing up the mess he had made, with Voldemort's assistance, but the call in Russia was too urgent to ignore. Instead, he had left Lin to help organise the situation. He could not disclose to his friends the cause of his travel to Russia – the activities were highly classified, as he was involved rather heavily in a situation regarding a dispute between the magical community and the Soviet government, and he could not risk his involvement being slipped to anyone in the Ministry of Magic. That, more than merely leaving the country, would have been sure to undo the progress they had made in British politics. Instead, at the end of each day, he worked tirelessly through documents and letters to assist the work back in the country. Lin sent daily correspondences about proceedings, and Harry would respond with detailed insights as to the people involved, the situation and any experiences he had had they may be of relevance, and any guidance he could offer. Lin was, of course, as competent a diplomat as Harry was, but his skills did not lie in leadership as Harry's did, and so in this, Harry would be giving the most advice.

This heavy routine meant that Harry had little chance to communicate with Voldemort. On some weeks, he would need to send correspondence to Voldemort regarding the political situation, often when Lin was having trouble finding a compromise with the stubborn man. Harry, strangely enough, seemed to be able to squeeze an agreement out every time. He could not tell whether or not this time away from Voldemort was beneficial or a hindrance to his feelings. He honestly did not know where he stood with the man, especially after that night. Which was natural, he supposed. Sex was, and always would be, an incredibly intimate act, no matter on what terms. His feelings for Voldemort still stood strong, and some nights he would lie awake, his heart aching in the loneliness of being in another country, after having spent so much time with the other man during the war. Yet at the same time, he felt that it was important that he had this time to reflect. If this trip away proved anything, it was that Harry was an incredibly busy man. And, really, so was Voldemort. Put on top of that the fact that they both had their own heavy background of childhood trauma, they did not really have the time to build a strong, healthy relationship between the two of them. Harry was not ready for a relationship with Voldemort, and it was very likely the Voldemort was not the type for such commitment anyway. It would be better for Harry emotionally if he spent more time on his work and his friendships, and so he did.

By the time he had returned to Britain, he was relieved. The Russian negotiations had taken up all of his energy, not to mention still doing as much of his work from home as he could cope with, and so he was absolutely exhausted. But he could not really stop to rest. As Lin had informed him while he was away, Voldemort was running a campaign for Minister of Magic. It was uncommon for someone to run for the position without having had direct experience in the Ministry beforehand, working their way up, but Voldemort was no common man. It was a well calculated political move, based on his already existing reputation and the public mood in the aftermath of a war. For the most part, Voldemort was promising peace to the British magical community, and they were craving it. In addition to this, his main opponent was radically Light. The Light supporters had flocked to her, desperate for some hope at undoing the loss in respect for Light politics after the war, but the general public would not support her. And so, given the circumstances, it was incredibly likely that Voldemort would win the election. Regardless, Harry did his bit for the other man. Between organising his own political agendas and campaigns on a more European scale, he would speak out in support of Voldemort for the role of Minister, emphasising his competence and the benefits of his more radical policies. The two had still not yet had the opportunity to meet, what with all of the campaigning issues and Harry's catching up on his work after his trip, but Voldemort had sent a letter to thank Harry for his continued support in Voldemort's political campaigns. Harry had written back a reminder that once Voldemort was in power he would also be using his platform to speak out against any policies he disagreed with, of which there were many, both knew.

In the aftermath of Voldemort being elected, Harry was not surprised in the least at receiving an invitation to the celebratory ball. He had always attended, of course, even for Light Ministers, but he had never received a handwritten letter inviting him as a  _special_  guest.

_Dear Lord Potter,_

_It is with great sincerity that I invite you to the ball celebrating my election as Minister of Magic of Great Britain. Your support, and even, dare I concede it, your criticisms have been integral to my growth into an electable politician, and your assistance in winning the war is a help that I cannot repay you for. It is with this in mind that I request your presence as a special guest, to be seated at my table for the evening. A prompt response will be desired, and I do hope to see you on the night._

_Yours sincerely,  
Lord Voldemort_

Harry had smiled at the letter, unable to help it. He was very pleased to see that Voldemort had been able to tone down his arrogance and admit that Harry had helped him get to where he was. He was also very excited to have the opportunity to converse with Voldemort, even though it would not likely be for long, as the new Minister being a very popular man to talk to. It would, however, be an awkward encounter. For Harry, at least. Both men were talented at their masks of polite interest, of course, but Harry was unsure how he would feel interacting with Voldemort in such a way. He was inclined, however, to let Voldemort make the first move. Harry had far more control over his emotions, and so it was only practical that he allow Voldemort to express himself as he found comfortable. Though he would, undoubtedly, make sure that he looked his best for the event; it would be no fun to not at least try to tempt Voldemort a little.

* * *

Voldemort was positively gleeful. Of course, he had expected to be elected as Minister of Magic; he would not have run had the chances been low. And so, to everyone around him, he could hardly help but be smug. If any of his followers were confused by his change of heart on democracy, they did not mention it. They certainly would not dare mention the influence that Lord Potter had had on the change. Besides, he clearly had somewhat misjudged the people. He had thought that they would be too stupid to see his way, too concerned over pandering to the muggles, to actually vote him in. But they had. Democracy was useful for something after all.

He was even more delighted to be having a ball held in his name. It had a strong feeling of victory to it, a finality, that he had  _won_ , and he had the fate of wizarding Britain in his hands. He could finally make a change, improve things for the Dark, and remove the stronghold that the Light had had on the public. He did not care much for the organisation of such an event, having far more important things on his mind, but the guest list was of upmost importance to him; especially where people were sat. His guest list had to be a political statement. It would not do for him to only invite purebloods, as he would be subject once again to the label of a bigot. And so, strategically, only half of the guests were pureblood. Technically, this was not actually representative of the population, purebloods only making up around 10% of wizarding Britain, but it would still seem radical to those looking at face value. Another of his strategies was to invite a few Light politicians. Traditionally, the new Minister would invite only those who already supported their policies, and this was largely true. But he would also be inviting a select few moderate Lights, specially chosen for their open-mindedness. This would allow him to place them among the more amiable of his people, in order to subtly work on converting them, and so they would go on to spread darker ideas to their Light colleagues. It was all to be a political game, and Voldemort was having the time of his life designing it – which was saying something for someone who was immortal.

When the organiser had come to him about who would sit on  _his_  table, it was trickier to work out. Immediately he knew that Potter would be seated to his right. Potter had been his ally during the civil war, and a primary campaigner for the election, and so it was only natural. In addition to this, Voldemort could only be surrounded by the most beautiful and powerful figures in wizarding society. Potter came out on top for this, just below Voldemort of course. The rest of the table was harder to work out. It was not a matter of who Potter would not mind sitting with – Potter could talk amiably with even Dumbledore without problem – more that Voldemort needed to find followers who would not be bitter about the fact that they were not being placed at his right hand. This was difficult, as the most powerful and beautiful of his followers were also the vainest, whose pride would most certainly be damaged. There were a few, though, who would be able to swallow their pride in order to please their Lord. In the end, however, it would not be a large table.

On the night itself, Voldemort strutted around the place with an air of triumph. He usually tried to keep himself distant and neutral, but he knew that he had every right to be triumphant. It was his  _celebration_  ball, his  _victory_  ball, and it certainly did not have anything to do with the fact that it was the first time he would be properly seeing Potter since the man went to Russia. He would be seeing everybody of importance tonight, because he was the new Minister of Magic and he had  _power_ , and people crave power.

It was imperative that he was the last to arrive. He needed everyone to witness his entrance – it would not be overly dramatic, but they would  _know_  for certain that he was the most important and powerful man in the room. And so for a while, Voldemort was casually lounging in a side room in the finest dress robes money could buy, drinking white wine, revelling in the sounds of his guests entering the building. When he was informed that everyone had arrived, he stood, brushed down his robes, and made his entrance.

The etiquette was not to stand, necessarily – this was not an evening for such formalities – but there was a hush as people admired him, striding to his place, looking not a day over 25. He sat regally at the top table, circular in shape, and nodded to his followers in greeting. He stubbornly ignored the man to his right, who appeared to be holding in laughter, for a reason Voldemort could not quite fathom. The room went back to its previous volume, and the man to his right spoke.

"I really don't understand your desire for excessive drama, Lord Voldemort," Potter said, grinning.

Voldemort held back a sigh. "It is a pleasure to see you too, Lord Potter, after so long. How have you been?"

"I've been quite well, thank you. I don't suppose I need to ask, but how do you do?" the amused glint was still making Potter's eyes shine, grating on Voldemort's nerves.

"I am doing wonderfully, thank you," he responded, curtly.

He would not be admitting to the fact that his heart had quickened the moment he set eyes on the Dark Lord, robes highlighting his slim figure and contrasting with his soft face. Voldemort had remembered every feature in sharp detail, but the reality would always be more disarming than the memory. The cheek, too, was exclusive to Potter's actual presence, and Voldemort was horrified to realise that he had missed it. But what he had missed most of all was the soft pink of his lips, the furious light to his eyes when experiencing pleasure, the rough feeling of the hair on his thighs. It was, after all, lust that he felt for Potter, along with that damned soul connection; he was incapable of anything else, and this desire had come back crashing down on him after months of Potter's absence.

The man in question, however, apparently did not have the time for Voldemort, as he was already engaged in conversation with one of Voldemort's own followers, rather than waiting patiently to speak with him, which was fine. Voldemort did not need to  _talk_  to Potter. While taking his champagne glass with his left hand, he slipped the right under the table, placing it gently on Potter's knee, before tactfully turning to his left to speak to Malfoy. Potter did not respond to the touch other than a violent twitch of the leg itself, clearly determined not to react. Voldemort gave the knee a gentle squeeze, before sliding his hand inward, stroking up towards Potter's crotch. This time he gained a far more satisfying reaction, as he heard the man's voice break mid-sentence in his conversation. It was all Voldemort had to not allow himself a full smirk, the absolute pleasure of teasing Potter in such a public setting, and most definitely being the person in power.

Unfortunately, his games could not last for too long; he was expected to speak, and then the ball began in full in which a string quartet graced the ballroom. It was time for dancing, either physically or politically, and so Voldemort did not have time to mess with Potter, as much as he felt a desire to get his status back over the man. It did not matter too much – yes, Potter had dominated him sexually months ago, but now, Voldemort was the most powerful man in wizarding Britain.

And so, the night went on rather tediously, with Voldemort making conversation with politicians, already planning for his time in office, putting motions in place, and really it did not feel much like a night of celebration. Indeed, not only did he have to put up with irritating politicians, but his beauty was the focus of much attention. He had had to refuse many men and women approaching him with barely disguised requests for more intimate interaction, frustratingly not put off or intimidated by Voldemort's mere presence. Many of the men who had approached him  _were_  incredibly attractive, and so he could understand why they may think that they had a chance, but obviously, they did not realise they were being compared to the beauty and might of Lord Potter. Pity, because it became very annoying, very quickly. Voldemort did not begin to enjoy himself until he was able to corner Potter, who had obviously also been using the night for political gain. As Voldemort had journeyed the room, he had kept on eye on Potter, who happened to be speaking to many of the same people as Voldemort, merely at different times. A particular interest in men with money, as could be expected. What grated on Voldemort a little was the apparent equal interest in any pretty face that asked for a dance. Now, Voldemort was not a jealous man. Well, he obviously was. But he knew that he had no need being jealous over Potter of all people. His jealousy did not extend to  _people_. All the same, he did not believe that Potter ought to be spending his night  _dancing_  and  _having fun_  when it was meant to be a celebration of Voldemort's achievements.

When he finally cornered Potter, he dragged the man at once to a private room, not having the patience to deal with him around so many other people. Potter seemed cheerful as ever, but his eyes darkened in lust as Voldemort pinned him against a wall, face an inch away.

"How've you been enjoying my night, Lord Potter?" he murmured, watching with glee as Potter's pupils diluted at his voice.

"Very well, Lord Voldemort. I wasn't aware you had such skills in organising parties," Potter responded with a grin.

Voldemort frowned. "I've skills in every possible area, Potter. I bet you couldn't even organise a children's party."

"No, I don't suppose I could," Potter laughed, eyes gleaming.

Impatient, Voldemort threw himself against Potter, claiming the man's lips, biting and sucking and kissing out the pent-up frustration since their last private meeting. Potter's hands slid round his back, pulling their bodies closer, and Voldemort kissed only more passionately in his victory. He began to unbutton Potter's dress shirt, pressing kisses down his neck and collar-bone, sucking to leave dark marks on his skin, Potter sighing occasionally in pleasure. Voldemort pulled them flush against each other again, kissing him and biting his ear. He could tell, though, that something was not right. As much pleasure as he had been feeling from the sighs and the moans, he knew that Potter should be fighting back, desperate for power over him.

"How much have you had to drink, Potter?" Voldemort asked, almost reluctantly, but gripped the man's hips firmly.

Potter's mouth fell open a little, surprised at the question. "Uh… maybe seven of the sparkling, I would've thought."

"And of other drinks?" Voldemort prompted, his irritation growing.

"Maybe a few whiskeys on top," Potter stated, nonchalantly.

"Fucking hell," Voldemort murmured, stepping away. "You really do have a problem; it astounds me how you get any politics done."

Potter merely looked confused.

"Fuck you, Potter, I can't take you like this," Voldemort sighed, dropping down onto a chair. "You really do piss me off sometimes."

"Ah. Sorry." Potter said. And he really, genuinely did look it.

That was fine. Voldemort would just have to spend more time awake tonight, thinking of what he could have done to Potter.

Knowing that he was still in perfect form, he reluctantly left Potter, the man looking flustered with his shirt untucked and opening up to sharp hickeys, and red lips from Voldemort's assault. It was a shame that alcohol had interrupted his desire, but unsurprised with it being Potter. It was convenient anyway, despite his disappointment, as he did not want to be absent from his ball for too long. Potter would have to wait, as fun always did.

* * *

"Good evening Lord Voldemort."

"Lord Potter," Voldemort tilted his head in greeting.

It had been over a year since the two of them had met again in private. Harry was a little ashamed that he had allow such a long period of time pass without meeting intimately, but it was a two-way-street; Voldemort had also been too busy to meet with him, and so they were equally at fault. They made many interactions in politics, Harry's influence obviously still as strong as it had always been, and so his opinion greatly valued. Voldemort would usually pay attention to Harry's views, taking it on board and integrating it into his policies to avoid much bother, but they had reached an impasse. Harry was determined to convince Voldemort to assist the Dark in Sweden's current civil war. They had argued back and forth for weeks, their points circling uselessly.

"You know that we owe it to them," Harry jumped right in, before Voldemort could begin with the small talk.

Voldemort pursed his lips tightly. "We owe them nothing. Sweden made no attempt to help us in our civil war, and so we have no obligation to involve ourselves in theirs."

"Because the Swedish Light was so much more  _oppressive_  than ours,  _is_  so much more oppressive, they couldn't risk coming over here to fight! You allowed me to stay the representative for the European Convention of Dark Magic, surely you expected this to happen eventually. The Convention have agreed that it is only right that we now help those in their fights for freedom in their country after the help they provided for us. You can't uphold an isolationist policy when there is such turmoil in Europe; set an example, take bold steps, go down in history as the most damn controversial Minister of Magic for Britain!"

Harry knew that he ought not to have been playing so much to Voldemort's ego, knowing that doing so would only come around to bite him on the arse later on, but he truly felt strongly about issue, and he was going to pull out all of the stops if he could.

"My mind is made up, Potter, you cannot budge me on this," Voldemort said, voice firm, though his eyes were softer.

They were both stood in a private meeting room in the Ministry, as if they both expected the meeting to end before it had started. It was quite a small room, too, relatively stuffy, and the only light was from a dim lamp hanging from the ceiling. Harry roamed his eyes over Voldemort's face, the cheekbones accentuated from the shadows in the room, red eyes, porcelain skin, and determined to swallow his pride.

" _That is a terrible shame_ ," Harry hissed in parseltongue, and Voldemort's eyes flashed, caught off-guard. " _I was hoping that this private meeting of ours would go on for a little longer_."

It surprised even Harry how little it took for Voldemort to push him back against the wall like he had the year before, kissing Harry with a passionate ferocity that was unexpected. Harry immediately began to kiss back, sliding his hands up to the taller man's hair, tugging at it firmly as they kissed. Voldemort pressed Harry harder into the wall in response, holding him by his hips to keep him in place.

" _I'm so desperate for you, Voldemort_ ," Harry hissed, stroking his ego as much as his pride could permit. " _Let me pleasure you, let me please you_."

Voldemort moaned lightly into Harry's mouth, and Harry felt his knees go weak at the feel of it. The hands on his hips were removed, and Harry heard the fumbling of buttons being undone, still as they kissed, and his hand was led down to Voldemort's crotch. Harry gently wrapped his hand around him, and began to stroke him tenderly, while kissing and nipping at the man's neck equally gently, stroking his ego as he went.

" _You are absolute perfection_ ," he would whisper into his ear as Voldemort tried to remain cool, " _your mind, your magic, your body is superior to everyone's_ ," and Voldemort would sigh into his hair as Harry continued to stroke him and kiss his neck, just as aroused by the reaction.

After a while, Harry dropped down gracefully onto his knees, putting his mouth around Voldemort, licking and sucking. Voldemort's hands carded through Harry's hair, gripping onto anything he could, as Harry exploited his arousal as best as he could. When he sensed that Voldemort was nearing completion, Harry pulled away, rocking back onto his heels and looking up at Voldemort. There was a pause while the man processed why he was no longer being satisfied.

"Continue!" Voldemort demanded, though he sounded more desperate than commanding.

"But, Voldemort," Harry murmured, running a finger down where his mouth had just been. "We so rarely see each other like this… And it's so long since we've been this intimate."

"We're being intimate now, surely we can find the time to do it more often," the man commented, his eyes focused on their only point of contact.

"We haven't the excuse to see each other so often, though… If you'd only agree to assist the civil war in Sweden, we'd need to meet far more often, and we'd surely find time for these things," Harry nearly purred, looking up at Voldemort innocently.

Voldemort knew what was happening. The man was stiff, and Harry could practically see the internal conflict behind his eyes, caught between his lust and his pride.

"Whatever gets you back into what you were doing," the man finally sighed, and Harry kept himself from smiling as he obediently went back to pleasuring Voldemort, even more aroused by his victory with the man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're still enjoying this!


	12. Chapter 12

Voldemort was reluctant to admit that he was grateful to have been able to spend more time with Potter. Meeting up to discuss tactic and involvement in Sweden felt almost like it had been for their own civil war. It was, of course, far better than then, however, as it was very rare that it did not end in some form of sexual satisfaction; he had lost count of the number of humiliating sexual defeats he had suffered at the hands (and mouth) of Lord Potter, but it was likely the same number of victories he had won, so he supposed it could be a lot worse. Still, there came a point where exclusively diplomatic and sexual encounters were not enough. Voldemort had not known what it was that he wanted, only that he wanted it, and so he had merely pushed his frustration into further attempts at sexual dominance. It was Potter who had finally been able to put it into words.

"We should go on dates," the man had exclaimed one evening,  _mid-sex_.

It had taken Voldemort a moment to process exactly what Potter had said, and he was completely taken aback.  _Dates_  were something he associated with teenagers, simpering over their crushes and fussing about trivial relationships. Voldemort was in his 50s, Potter in his 60s, and though neither of them necessarily  _looked_  that old, thanks to Voldemort's horcruxes and Potter's vain use of youth preservation rituals, they were still in no position to go on dates.

"You're mad," Voldemort had stated. "You're not even middle-aged and you've lost your mind."

Potter's eyes shined with mirth, but he had stuck with the idea.

He was not entirely sure what he had imagined a  _date_  with Potter, a  _date_  between two Dark Lords would be like, but it was apparent that he had set his expectations far too low, as always was the case with Lord Potter. Potter had not meant a  _date_  in the traditional sense, which Voldemort was incredibly relieved by, though he could have corrected Voldemort on it earlier. He merely meant… an outing.

"An adventure!" Potter had called it, looking around 40 years younger as he spoke.

Voldemort also had not been expecting to be taken up on his agreement to explore the mountains of Norway with Potter, from a conversation on a balcony that seemed like a lifetime ago. But in all honesty, he was quite excited for the trip; he had been in politics for so long, he had almost forgotten the excitement of exploring the unexplored, discovering the mysteries of magic, pushing the limits of his mind, magic, and body to see the beauty of the world in its rawist form, away from the intervention of humanity. He had set aside a month for the expedition, hoping desperately that his government would not mess up too badly while he was gone, and was finally ready to set off. They had spent about three months meeting and discussing where exactly they would go, what equipment they would need, researching the area to have some idea of what to expect, which was not much; it was a largely unexplored area, which made it all the more exciting. They both decided that it would be wise to take journals so that they could document their experiences, and later be able to publish it if they wished. Voldemort was not sure if he wanted to publish what they found, rather liking the idea of being one of the only people to know, but he was also very tempted by the idea of people knowing his successes.

Their starting point was at the base of the largest mountain that could be seen from Potter's Norway base. They were each carrying large bags with the feather-light charm, containing the basic supplies, such as tents, food, and even magically enhanced muggle climbing equipment if they needed it. First, though, they were waiting for the sun to set. It was Potter's idea, again, to start out in the dark, in the hopes of encountering some more interesting magical creatures, and Voldemort was happy to follow this plan.

Potter was sprawled out on the grass, basking in the orange of the sunset, while Voldemort was perched more regally on a large rock. He looked the other man over, admiring the shadows of his face, eyes closed, and the way the wind brushed his messy hair over his forehead.

"You're going grey," Voldemort observed aloud. Potter's eyebrows furrowed into a frown, but he remained sprawled.

"Am not," the man protested.

"Acting like a child will not make you look like one, I hope you're aware."

"It's alright for you, you and your bloody immortality. I'm  _aging_. Soon enough I'll be middle aged and I'll begin my descent into old aged dependence and I'll have to start planning for my death and working out who will take my position and what food to serve at my funeral…"

"You are far too dramatic for your own good, Potter," Voldemort sighed, but he was trying his hardest not to laugh at the other man. "Knowing you, you'll be one of those anomalies who live to something ridiculous like 500 and I'll have to deal with you for 3 times as long as I was prepared for."

"Spending so much time with you has probably  _halved_  my life expectancy, I don't think you have to worry."

Voldemort only hummed in response, letting the sounds of the wildlife replace their talk. Potter  _was_  aging, despite his attempts to preserve his appearance, but Voldemort knew that the man did not really care. He was perfectly comfortable with the concept of death, often joking about Voldemort's immortality being an abomination. It was not. Voldemort did not need to worry about such things as death and funerals, and instead could focus on his political work, and researching magic in order to become the most knowledgeable being to walk the earth. He had  _time_ , time that nobody else was powerful enough to have access to, and though he had agreed to not make any more horcuxes, he was still pleased at his advantage over the rest of the population. He would live through centuries, and become a god among wizarding kind, and eventually, once Potter was no longer badgering him, perhaps a god above the muggles. Not that Potter would stop badgering him any time soon – despite what the man said, Voldemort simply could not imagine him dying at the average age, he was simply too powerful.

"Some people look good with grey hair," Voldemort suggested, thinking of a co-worker with silver hair, thick lashes, and a sharp cheekbone.

"Not me," Potter scoffed. "My face is too round, I'll just look stupid."

"I keep telling you, Potter, if you just let yourself age naturally your youthful mind will show through, and Merlin knows you have the mind of a 10-year-old."

"Stop teasing me and leave me alone will you? Look, the sun has nearly set."

When they finally did set off, they walked in silence, side by side, working out where they could tread without disturbing their pace. It had not been walked through before, so this was an arduous task what with bushes and rocks littering the ground, but they did not want to disrupt the nature in the area. The ascent was incredibly steep to begin with, and Voldemort was mildly embarrassed to find his thighs protesting the exercise already, but he could ignore the feeling. Though it was dark, they were in an open field, and the moon shone down onto their path as they walked. In the first hour or so, they did not encounter any particularly interesting wildlife; only a large number of ox, who respectfully left the two wizards alone as they intruded on their habitat. It was a truly beautiful landscape. Voldemort felt as if they were walking to the sky, and if he were still a child he would have been certain of a fountain of gold at their destination. What truly struck with him, though, was the feeling of the natural world enveloping him and comforting him, removing all of the stresses he had been experiencing in politics. Logically, he knew that spending so much time indoors in manmade structures was bad for both his mind and his magic, but he was always too busy to care, but now he was out again it seemed more important than ever.

"The outdoors…" he started, trailing off in wonder, already feeling more at peace and less irritable.

Potter merely continued walking in silence, letting Voldemort continue his train of thought in his own time.

"Nature is how you're so powerful. You're a powerful wizard anyway, but you don't confine yourself indoors like I do. You get out, and let your magical core absorb the power of Mother Nature."

Potter hummed in agreement. "There are so many wizards these days who forget the power of the natural world, and I confess it is information I quite like to keep to myself, selfishly. But it goes back to the time I always speak of, the time of balance between Light and Dark magic. Witches and wizards performed magic in harmony with Mother Nature, using the winds to guide their magical spirits, the plants to enhance their cores. Potions and weather magic are some of the oldest varieties of magic we have, and yet both have been restricted time and time again by the Light."

Voldemort did not respond to this. Somehow, he knew that no matter how much studying and practicing of magic he did in his spare time, Potter would always be just that bit more knowledgeable. Voldemort knew next to nothing about the most natural forms of magic, and yet he was sure that these were probably the most powerful. Potter was far more likely to  _make up_  his spell use than Voldemort, because he understood magic at its basest form. Voldemort knew more than most, of course – he was one of the most knowledgeable and powerful wizards to ever live – but his knowledge did not match up to Potter's. The difference was wisdom. As much as it pained Voldemort to even think it, Potter was probably wiser than Voldemort would ever be, and it had nothing to do with age.

It was nearing midnight when they reached the beginnings of a forest. Tall fir trees blocked them from seeing what was beyond their current path, and the moon was no longer lighting the ground. It was here that they decided it would be wise to set up camp, so that they could enter the forest in moderate light, and so they both removed their bags and got to work with putting the tent up. Although it had an extension charm on it to make it larger on the inside, it was still a modest tent, with only two sleeping spaces and a main room. Once that had been sorted, Potter had insisted on sitting outside with a fire, because even though they had magic to keep them warm and food that would not need cooking, he wanted the experience to feel 'authentic'. This did not make him sneer as it once would. And so, they sat outside with a fire. The fire flickered and created shadows of the two Dark Lords' faces, crackling in the near silence of the wilderness. There was very little evidence of humankind to be seen – around them were mountains and valleys and rivers, but all untouched. The only human structure they could see was Potter's mansion, a faint glow visible from the windows.

"Fuck," Potter muttered, frowning into the distance. "I forgot to turn the lights off… I'm sure Lin will do it for me when he finds it."

"You really are quite something," Voldemort said, amused. He had not left anything out of place prior to the trip; he never did when leaving anything behind.

"Something amazing? That I am," the man responded.

"Not quite what I was thinking."

"Shame." Potter leant back into a lying position, hands beneath his head. There was a short silence before he spoke again. "When I was younger, I always dreamt that I could go out and stargaze with someone."

It was a clear night; the clouds had all cleared to show the open expanse of the night sky, of the  _universe_  and all the wonders that this strange concept held.

"My aunt and uncle kept me inside the house whenever they could, see. Didn't want the neighbours catching any strange behaviour from me. But I longed for the outdoors and the fresh air, for the wildlife just to exist around me, while I observed, fascinated. When I was older, my aunt would let me – make me, I should say, but she didn't know that I enjoyed it – look after the garden, and that was something of a solace to me. When I went to Durmstrang, I would spend hours of my free time outdoors. Finn – did I ever tell you his name? – used to think that I was mad, but he grew to love the outdoors just as much as I did in the end. But we never got to stargaze, and I haven't had the heart to do it since for missing him."

As the man spoke, Voldemort felt a gnawing inside his stomach. He knew that Potter had had many lovers, but to hear him speak so intimately of this boy, Finn, was… strange. He was not overly comfortable with it.

"And yet here you are," Voldemort commented, lying back himself and staring into the sky.

"Here I am," he agreed. "Did you go out often, when you were younger?"

"Outside… meant other children. It was far easier, in the Orphanage, to remain inside to study, or to practice my magic. At Hogwarts, I spent my time in the library."

"That'd explain why you're so pale."

They lay for a while, staring at the stars. Voldemort had a fair knowledge of the constellations, having taken the time to excel in many subjects, but he had not found the stars particularly important enough to retain the information in great detail. Maybe one day, in a few centuries or so, he would get bored of Earth magic and study more about what was beyond.

Slowly, Potter started to move towards Voldemort, until he was leaning against him lightly. Voldemort shifted slightly, turning his head to kiss Potter firmly on the lips, his eyes fluttering shut as he did. It was a blissful moment, the softness of Potter's lips, the warmth of his body, the crackling of the fire, and nobody around them for miles… It was the most content he had ever felt. As Potter placed his hand on Voldemort's hip, they deepened the kiss, leaning further into each other.

"I'm absolutely exhausted," Potter murmured against Voldemort's lips, before kissing his neck gently.

"So what?"

"If you carry me to the bed I'll let you top."

Voldemort rolled his eyes at the suggestion, but despite how ridiculous it was, he rose, lifting Potter up around his hips, and walked them both into the tent, nibbling teasingly at the man's neck as they went. He threw Potter down onto the bed, straddling him, and begun to work at the buttons of his shirt.

"I really shouldn't be encouraging this," he muttered, kissing all over his chest.

"Encouraging what?" Potter asked innocently.

" _You_ , thinking you can get me to do anything in the world in return for sexual favours."

"What's the problem if it's true?"

He chose to ignore this, running his hands gently down Potter's sides, over his hips, kissing his stomach.

"You've been putting on weight," Voldemort murmured between kisses, pinching his stomach slightly.

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No," he responded simply, sucking at it harshly before moving back up to Potter's lips.

After he had taken Potter, he rolled off the man, and, too tired to get up again, fell asleep in the same bed for the first time.

* * *

The first week had not brought them anything particularly interesting. They had continued their ascent up and around the mountain, through forest and over rivers, but had only really seen non-magical creatures, other than the odd doxy infestation, which they had avoided. But Harry was not disappointed by the start of the trip, and this had nothing to do with the wildlife or the views that they were being graced with. No – Harry was pleased that he was spending so much time with Voldemort. True, they did not get along  _all_  the time, but nobody ever did, that was merely the nature of human relationships. They did, however, consistently get along at nights, and they  _slept in the same bed_ , every night since the first. Now, Harry was not necessarily the cuddly type. The bed sharing had not entailed spooning and cuddling and whatever nonsense it meant to the more romantic of wizards, but there was something undeniably intimate about sleeping in the same place for a whole night. Evolutionarily speaking, of course, it meant a great deal of trust, and so Harry was sure that his hormones were doing most of the work on the intimacy.  _Why_  it felt so intimate, though, was not Harry's concern; he just enjoyed it. He had never really been one to share a bed. He'd taken lovers, and some of them had slept overnight with him, but that was neither here nor there. With Voldemort, however, it meant more. He and Voldemort had never shared a bed. He had never expected them to, to be frank. He had never expected them to still be in contact by his 60s. But neither of them had thought to question it, and so every night after sex, neither of them bothered to move to the other room – there was just no point. But Harry was sure that their relationship had taken a significant step that first night.

It was after just over a week before they came across any significant magical creatures.

Their tread in the forest had been light, careful not to disturb any of the wildlife, merely there as observers, and this was their saving grace as Harry heard loud movement further ahead of them. Spelling silent charms onto their feet, the two wizards had crept onwards, keeping to larger trees for cover. Harry was grateful to whatever Power existed beyond that he had the restraint not to swear aloud when he saw them;  _Graphorns_. The sight astounded him. Their tentacle-like mouths were furrowing in great leaf piles, humongous bodies barely able to squeeze through the many trees without knocking them down. The scaly legs, the horns, the-

Harry was tugged out of his admiration by a vice-like grip on his arm, pulling him at an alarming speed in the other direction. Not wanting to be dragged, he quickly adjusted, running alongside Voldemort as best as he could. Once they had got far enough away that the Graphorns were well and truly out of sight, Voldemort dropped Harry's arm, and they both leant against a tree, panting.

"Fucking hell, Potter," Voldemort panted. "I had no damn clue that  _Graphorns_  were like Veela to you!"

Harry chose not to respond, feeling minutely embarrassed by himself.

"You could have got yourself killed! They would've devoured you if you'd been seen! What on earth were you doing?"

"They're meant to be endangered!" Harry protested, indignant now. "I've never seen one in my life and I never thought that I would; I thought Newt Scamander had the only remaining two."

"Well clearly they've been breeding," Voldemort muttered.

"Thank you, though," Harry said, honest. "You're right, I probably would've had my arse shredded to pieces if you hadn't got me out so quick."

"Damn right you're grateful."

They both took a moment to recover from their escape, before Harry started laughing. It was quiet at first, mostly a giggle, but it grew into full hearty laughter. Voldemort looked astonished.

"What's so funny?" he demanded, frowning. "You nearly died!"

"We've seen Graphorns, Voldemort!" Harry exclaimed, grinning. "We've seen some of the only remaining Graphorns on earth, and we lived to tell the tale!"

It took a moment, but eventually, Voldemort allowed himself a smirk.

"I suppose that is quite amazing," he admitted, and Harry just laughed harder.

"You and I, Voldemort. We saw Graphorns. Out of everything I've done, that must be my greatest achievement. Write it on my gravestone, will you?"

Harry enjoyed a warmth in his chest at the fact that he had finally gotten Voldemort to smile about the whole thing, and that Voldemort had saved his life. He felt absolutely elated by it, and his heart fluttered at the implications. He was feeling exhilarated, he was feeling jubilant, he was feeling-

"I know that look, Potter," came the dry remark, "and we are  _not_  having sex in the middle of a forest, disturbingly close to a small herd of Graphorns. I do not want insects crawling up my arse."

 _Damn_ , Harry thought. It was okay though – they would be making up for it in the evening.

* * *

After checking his watch, Voldemort sighed at the discovery that it was 5am. Potter was taking up most of the bed, snoring lightly, and though the man's nudity nearly made up for it, it was still 5am. And Voldemort was awake. His legs were aching from the walking, having scaled a ridiculously steep slope the day before, and his arse was sore from the night. Potter was the worst pain in the arse he had ever felt. Suspecting that he would not be able to get back to sleep for another couple of hours, he got out of the bed, got dressed, and went to make himself some tea. It was disturbingly domestic. He was disturbingly content with it.

His time with Potter had been eye-opening, to say the least. He had, of course, spent much time with the man over the most recent decades, but never like this. Here, he was spending every second of every day with him, until the end of the month if they were not finished exploring sooner. It was irritating, at times, being in Potter's company so persistently. The man could be infuriating, had a Gryffindor brashness about him, and Voldemort fancied himself something of an introvert; he enjoyed spending time in solitude, and out here in Norway he was getting none of it. As he sat with his tea, he knew that the solitude he had here was as best as he was going to get. But at the same time, he did not really mind. He was not sure quite what it was about Potter's presence, but even as he was getting on Voldemort's nerves, he still felt like  _good company_. More disturbing. Voldemort did not usually have patience for people like Potter; had it been anyone else, he either would have left the journey, or demanded that the other did so that he could continue. But he had always known that Potter was different. Different to him, at least. No level of annoying behaviour could put Voldemort off his company, and more often than not he would end up smiling despite himself. He knew that Potter was a charmer, certainly; he need only look at the number of witches and wizards still lusting over him even as he aged to confirm this. There was something  _different_  that went on between him and Potter, but as much as he thought and puzzled over it, he could not think what it was. Perhaps it was to do with that beginning, when Potter had stopped him from creating a third horcrux. It may be the soul connection from that, bringing them closer to each other, making their interactions mean  _more_  in a way that neither of them could quite understand.

As Voldemort waited for Potter to wake so that they could continue their journey, he retrieved the rough map they had created and spread it out on the table. So far, they had just about covered the largest mountain in the range, and so they planned to move onto the next with hopes of finding more magical areas. They had chosen the largest one to cover first largely out of childish instinct; the bigger mountain surely would be the better one, Potter had said. Certainly, had they not explored this mountain, they would not have seen Graphorns, but other than that it had not been overly exciting. The next mountain, however, was more promising. Local muggles (not that there were any particularly close to the mountain range) told fairy tales of this mountain, and they both knew that muggle myths were usually based on reality. Of course, the actual creatures and events involved would not be at all the same, but the idea of  _something_  abnormal having taken place was usually true. This, hopefully, was something that they would soon discover. It was not a particularly large mountain, but it was covered in forest area, and so a great potential for magical activity.

There was a grunt from the bedroom, and Potter shuffled into the kitchen area, having only bothered to put on underwear, covering a large yawn. He headed straight for the kettle, boiling Voldemort's leftover water again and making himself a coffee. It was not until the man had sat down with his caffeine that Voldemort spoke.

"I have no idea how you sleep for so long in this thing," Voldemort commented, eyeing the coffee. "And you really shouldn't be so reliant on caffeine to wake up."

"Better than the whiskey," he mumbled back, resting his head on his hand groggily.

"That's true. How've you been finding the abstinence?"

For the sake of the trip, Potter had sworn to go without alcohol for the full month; it was not hard, as they had not brought any alcohol for him to be tempted by, but Voldemort had been worried that it might take its toll on him psychologically. He had not really been sure exactly how bad the man's alcohol problem was, but he knew it was a present issue.

"It's alright I guess. Could be worse. Good to have distractions." He swallowed his coffee in thick gulps.

"I hope that's not all my sexual favours are for. Distractions from your lack of alcohol," Voldemort joked, quirking an eyebrow.

"'Course not," Potter murmured, cradling his coffee.

He was silent after that, however, and Voldemort decided that he needed to leave him a little longer before he had woken up properly. Instead, he got up to make breakfast, frying a couple of eggs with some bread. Domestic. After they had eaten, Potter seemed a little more upbeat, getting dressed into his practical walking gear with a light hum, and soon enough they had packed their items away once again.

The forest that they were trekking through was incredibly dense, leaves growing thick to catch the slithers of light, and it would be difficult to tell the time of day without a watch. For a long while, there merely common creatures; rabbits would scuttle away at their approach, curious birds would peek out of bushes, and doxies would blow raspberries at them whenever they came near. The temperature was neutral, the forest thick as it was, and there was no branch out of place. Just towards dusk, however, as they were walking, the temperature dropped, and the forest became silent.

Voldemort turned to Potter questioningly, who also had sensed the sharp change in atmosphere. The man stepped back in the direction they came, and his eyebrows shot up even further. Voldemort followed suit, and was shocked to find that it had gone back to the same temperature, the sounds of the wildlife at their normal level.

"Some sort of ward, do you think?" he asked.

They both retrieved their wands, running tests for magical activity.

"I've come up with nothing," Voldemort murmured, putting his wand away.

"I thought that might be the case," Potter responded, doing the same. "But there's definitely something there. It's not a wizard made magic, though. There's something natural about it, but there is a definite presence of magical power."

Voldemort frowned at this. He really needed to do more research into natural magic.

Potter led the way back into the strange area, and Voldemort followed, trusting the man's instincts that it was not a dangerous magic. As they continued, the trees became increasingly sparse, the air lighter, until they found a perfectly circular clearing.

The grass was long and thick here, bathing in the sunlight which was no longer blocked by trees, and in the centre were an arrangement of large rocks. Voldemort let Potter approach them slowly, crouching down by the largest.

"There's writing on it, but I can't quite work it out," he called back to Voldemort. "It looks like some variation of Norse runes."

Voldemort strode over, crouching by the same stone. When he looked over the writing, he felt a sense of wonder wash over him.

"Whatever you do, don't touch the stones," he said immediately, before leaning forward a little to read the script better.

"Why? What is it?"

As he read, he felt his eye begin to twitch, but he would not let that bother him. He read it again, and again, and again, certain that he would find some mistake that he had made and that he was exaggerating the significance of what they had found; he did not.

"This, if I'm not terribly mistake, was a gathering area of the Old Norse Elves," Voldemort murmured reverently, standing to get a better look at the area.

"Holy shit."

"Merlin, if anyone else knew that this was here…"

"They'd destroy the place in their desperation for its power."

When he had first heard about the Norse Elves in History of Magic, Voldemort had been hooked. He had raided the library of every book on the race, carried out weeks' worth of research on them, even learning to translate their scripture; not that there was many remains to go off. The Norse Elves had been a grand power many millennia ago, tall creatures much unlike the House Elves, with powers beyond imagination. It was said that the powers of the Norse Elves could shift the moon. They had lived alongside wizards in harmony for thousands of years, but eventually the wizards grew jealous. They discovered how to harness the power of the elves, draining it from them. It had been a brutal genocide, and it had always astounded Voldemort how the elves had let it happen; they were so powerful, but they believed in peace, and so not once did they fight back. They let wizarding kind drive their race into extinction. As a teenager, Voldemort had dreamed of being able to harness the power of the Norse Elves – if any wizard would acquire the power to shift the moon, it would be him. It took all of his self-restraint not to run about the place trying to extract the power now, but Potter was looking at him warily as if he had that very concern, and Voldemort was determined to prove the man that he was stronger than that. He did not  _need_  the power of the Norse Elves…

But this discovery was golden.

"This must be where the muggle tales come from," Potter commented.

Voldemort hummed in agreement. Even after the Norse Elves had fallen into extinction, the dense magic in the area would be enough to spark strange goings on in the area; elven magic tended to have a negative reaction to muggle blood, and so it made sense that they had learnt to keep a wide berth.

The Dark Lords managed to spend hours in the clearing, wandering around, lying in the sun, examining the scripts, soaking in the unique atmosphere of the area, and Voldemort was left to wonder if he was using up all of his lifechanging experiences in this one trip, before he had even surpassed his first century. If so, he would be in for an incredibly boring eternity.

* * *

It was the last day of their expedition, and Harry was shattered. They had been walking day in and day out, and he had applied a number of creams and charms to his feet each night in order to keep himself going. He was a little concerned that his age was showing, but Voldemort seemed to be in a similar position (albeit with less complaints than Harry).

The end part of their trip was, in Harry's opinion, looking to be incredibly exciting; where they were headed, it was said that anybody who approached the area was to be devoured by a serpent demon. Harry had been thrilled by this idea, and it had taken much convincing of Voldemort in their preparation months for him to agree to it. Harry was sure that they would be okay, regardless of the terrible reputation the place had. They both could speak parseltongue, and so had some chance at light conversation with the creature, and if this failed they would be able to apparate away before being chewed alive.

"I can't believe I let you talk me into this," Voldemort sighed as they set off towards the lake.

"What can I say, I'm just that good at giving head."

"That had nothing to do with it. I just think you've got a death wish, and if I didn't go with you to make sure you were sensible, you'd probably go yourself and get killed."

"I'd be fine on my own," Harry argued half-heartedly.

"As evidenced by your fantastic performance with the Graphorns, yes. You have a disturbingly calm fascination with Dark creatures."

When the lake came into sight, they approached with caution. Wands out and ready to apparate if needed, the wizards shuffled towards the waters' edge. After there was no movement from the water, Voldemort hissed out.

" _Show yourself, serpent_."

For a moment, there was still nothing, before great waves began to form on the water. They took a few steps back in anticipation, before the beast tore through the water with a shrill hiss. The beauty of it was astounding; the water on its scales glinted in the sunlight, accentuating the obsidian scales of its belly and the deep ruby of its back. Its jaw was wide open, showing rows upon rows of humongous teeth, two deadly fangs at the front. Before it could crash down and snap them up in its jaws, Voldemort hissed out again, loudly.

" _PEACE! We have not come to harm you, only to admire your magnificence._ "

The serpent fell back into the water with a great splash, the soaking nearly knocking the two men over.

" _You men ssspeak_ ," it hissed in response, and Harry knew that they had won; if it were still unimpressed with them, they would be dead already.

" _Yes,_ " Harry hissed his time, stepping forwards. " _I had no idea you would be so beautiful_ ," he flattered honestly.

" _I am the most beautiful of all beasts,_ " it agreed.

" _What creature are you?_ " Voldemort asked. " _You are unique to anything I have studied_ "

" _My kind are the Selma – no man has ever lived to tell of our existence._ "

It was incredible that the creature – the Selma – had so willingly engaged in their conversation, though Harry thought that perhaps it had been lonely.

" _It is a great honour to be able to witness your glory,_ " Harry hissed again. " _I hope you will allow us the honour of living beyond this grand day, as well_."

The great serpent paused at this, and appeared to be deliberating. Harry felt his heart speed up nervously, his instincts pumping adrenaline through his blood.

"I think you've pushed a little far, Potter," Voldemort said in English.

"I think so too."

As the Selma's eye flashed dangerously, Harry grabbed onto Voldemort's arm and apparated.

They landed in an unsteady manner back in Harry's Norway base, and Harry immediately fell into the nearest chair, taking a breath to bring his heart rate back down. Voldemort ran a hand through his hair uncharacteristically, squeezing his eyes shut.

"You nearly got yourself killed. Again."

"I got us out in time," Harry protested weakly, knowing that it had in fact been very close. "Still, we discovered a new species, did we not? I say that was worth it."

"Not worth it," Voldemort sighed.

The man walked over to Harry, sitting on his lap, and pressing his lips to Harry's. Voldemort's mouth was hot, and Harry found himself relaxing into the kiss, their noses brushing gently against each other.

"You never did tell me how you managed to speak parseltongue. You're certainly not part of the Slytherin line, there's only me left," Voldemort said, tugging Harry up as they made their way into the meeting room to dump their bags.

"How long's that puzzle been bothering you?"

"Decades."

Harry let out a loud laugh. "You could've asked sooner. I created a ritual with two lovely Naga in India. I should take you to meet them, they'd love to see you."

"You've met Naga?"

"Naturally. They're not too difficult to find, and really very social. The communication was difficult at first, of course, as they didn't know any English and I know little Hindi, but once the ritual was over they were lovely."

When they set the bags down onto the meeting table, they turned to face on another.

"Do you need any help sorting through the stuff?" Voldemort asked.

"I'll be fine, don't worry. Get some rest and sort out your minions. For all we know, another war could've started." Harry joked, though Voldemort frowned at the idea.

Voldemort pulled Harry suddenly into another hot kiss, bodies flush against each other, and when they pulled away, the man's red eyes looked only vulnerable.

"We'll stay in touch," the man said as he stepped away, but he seemed to be assuring himself more than Harry.

"As if I'd allow you any peace," Harry smiled.

Voldemort smiled back lightly, before apparating back to England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe how far this has gone! We're nearly at the end, oh my gosh. I hope you're all excited!


	13. Chapter 13

The 10th of December 2007, was not a day that Harry was likely to forget. It had been a cold day, with the first snow of the season, frost climbing up the windows. Harry felt as if he life was always cold. But the room he was in was warm; he had put regulatory charms in place, so as to assure the comfort of Lin.

Lin was in bed, his wispy white hair rubbing against the pillow, and Harry was sat at the bedside, holding onto his hand tightly. Whether this was for the comfort of himself or Lin, he was not certain.

"You've been so good to me, Harry," the man said lightly, his voice barely reaching Harry.

"If I could ever somehow pay you back for how good you've been to me… You're like a father to me, Lin," Harry responded with a faint laugh.

"And you've always been a son to me," Lin assured.

Harry smiled, trying his best to stay strong for Lin. He knew that Lin would not like it if Harry were to look miserable; there is time for misery on the other side too, he would always say.

"I want you to promise me, Harry, that you'll let yourself be happy."

"I promise, Lin. I promise."

"You can't let Voldemort get to you, but also don't let him get away from you. It's caused you too much pain already, and you're too old for that now. I should know."

"I promise." Harry whispered.

Lin fell silent after that, and Harry knew that it was time. He removed his hand from Lin's, placing it by his side, and left the room to find his followers. Their group had grown massively in the past few decades, and there where many of the younger generation pacing around, nervous. The older members were sat, peacefully, but looking grim. Harry lifted himself from the misery, adopting his Dark Lord mask.

"Lin has passed," he said clearly, not letting his voice falter, and the grim looks on people's faces deepened. Some of the younger members sniffed, trying to hold back tears. "For those of you who are fortunate to have not experienced this before, the tradition is similar to that of family members. In circles of Dark magic, the Dark witches and wizards that you align yourselves with  _are_  family. This is especially prevalent as Lin has no surviving relatives, and so we have a familial duty to send him peacefully to the next life. You may each individually enter his room to pay your respects, cast the charm that you have been taught, and say your last words. With any luck, when he reaches the next plane he will know the respect that we have given to him."

Harry stood to the side of the room, overseeing people as they formed a line, affirming that they were all comfortable with the charm. The charm was undeniably Dark – it was verging on necromantic, intended to send impressions and messages to the deceased – but it was commonly used by the family members of a dead relative, even in Light families.

Once all of his followers had said their farewells, Harry set about contacting the funeral company.

"Hey, do you need any help?"

While everyone else had returned to their homes, Celestia had stayed behind. Celestia was something of an apprentice to him, though he did not teach her much more than he did the rest of the group. She was intended to replace him once he himself passed away, and so he got her heavily involved in the nuances of the politics, often taking her to meetings so that her name was out on the international field. Other than that, however, he did not want to influence her views and style of leading. By the time Harry passed, it would be important that there was someone younger in place to lead with fresh ideas, keeping the fight for Dark magic going.

"I can handle it, thank you Cel. You get home, spend time with your family. It's been a tough day for all of us."

After sitting through piles and piles of paperwork, Harry's mind was spinning rapidly, a heavy thudding against his temple, and his hands felt heavy.

Signed his name. Thud, thud. Scratched out some arrangements for the funeral. He felt dizzy. Signed his name again. His whole weight on the quill.

Unable to take it anymore, Harry gave in, heading towards the drinks cabinet. As he was pulling a glass out, a hand wrapped around his wrist firmly.

"I heard about Lin," Voldemort said quietly. "Thought you might need some help. I guess I was right."

"I've been sorting the paperwork just fine," Harry protested, his heart beating heavily, the shock of the sudden intrusion and the implications of his presence. "You didn't need to come."

"That's not the sort of help I meant."

Voldemort took the glass from Harry's hand, placing it back in the cupboard, and Harry turned around to face him. He looked young as ever, and Harry suddenly felt conscious that he must look ancient in comparison. The man's eyes were staring at him, concerned, and Harry felt a jolt in his heart at the care.

"Let me get you to bed. You need rest."

Harry followed Voldemort numbly to the bedroom, silently accepted as the man undressed him to his underwear, and did not question when Voldemort undressed and climbed into bed with him.

"Do you want me to… pleasure you?" Voldemort asked, looking genuinely uncertain.

The question shocked Harry for a moment, then it occurred to him that Voldemort had likely never offered emotional support before; Harry had never needed it, and he had never seen the man be as friendly with anyone else as he was with him. Voldemort did not know how to offer comfort, and so Harry could not be horrified at his attempt. Instead of answering, his resolve breaking down, Harry started to cry. It was gentle at first, but it quickly descended into heaving sobs like he had not felt for decades, the grief rushing through him and taking hold of his heart. He was not sure how long it took, but he soon felt a hand slide into his, holding it firmly. It did not stop the tears, but it gave him some comfort, and for the first time that day, he felt grounded.

* * *

"Do you want to something for your birthday? 100 is a big one," Voldemort asked one night, having just left Harry melting.

"Hmm… We should go to India."

"India?"

"To meet the Naga. You can't tell me you don't want to do that."

Voldemort looked pensive. "How long would the trip be?"

"Only a day or so, unless we decide to do any other sight-seeing. We can't really stay with the Naga, not without an incredibly strong bubble-head charm, so it usually involves a chat by the waters' edge, sometimes they bring along some of their 'tea', before they slither back away complaining of the sun."

"May I overlap it with a short business visit?"

"I thought you were going to take a break from politics."

As Harry and Voldemort both grew older, Voldemort had been growing restless with politics. After their trip in Norway, he had remembered what more there was to life, and so was planning to take a century-long break in order to spend time travelling and learning, so that he could later come back with a refreshed outlook.

"I have some ends to tie with the Indian Minister. It wouldn't take long, and you could do some sight-seeing while I'm there."

"Sounds good," Harry said, yawning.

They had gone to sleep at that point, knowing that they had plenty of time to plan it.

When they reached Harry's birthday, Voldemort was at Harry's home early in the morning. After eating a quick breakfast together, Voldemort surprised Harry with a neatly wrapped box.

"Don't get used to it," he had said firmly. "I haven't bought you a present before and I shan't again. But you've been alive a century, and for a mortal like you I thought that the milestone deserved being celebrated."

Harry smiled, amused by Voldemort's attempts to be casual about it. They really did not do presents, the concept being too romantic, he supposed, and so it meant a lot to him that he was getting one today. He unwrapped it carefully, not wanting to tear any of it, and lifted the lid off the box gently. Inside was a simple watch, the face showing only the time, but the golden chain held the traces of a charm. As Harry fastened it to his wrist, the links joined together to form a solid band, and on it was engraved the words  _The Soul Never Gives Up_.

"Wow," Harry murmured, tracing his finger along the band. "Bit religious for you though, is it not?"

"That's why it's for  _you_. I don't believe in it, but I felt it suited both your beliefs on death and attitude to life."

"Thank you, so much," Harry said, touched by the sentiment of the gift. He had not been expecting a present at all, never mind something so meaningful.

"It's just a watch," Voldemort muttered, but Harry could tell he was glad it was appreciated.

Harry apparated the two of them to the Gurudongmar lake first, keen to see his Naga friends. The lake was just as beautiful as when he had first visited, though the human dwellings had grown a little closer. The sun was almost painfully hot, it being midday and summer, which was not something Harry had considered, and so he made quick work of casting a cooling charm to himself. He led Voldemort to his favourite spot to meet the Naga; it was a rocky area where he could sit with his ankles in the water, which was a little cooler, and also quite comfortable. Voldemort gave Harry a funny look when he began to take his shoes off, but he followed suit all the same.

To summon the two excitable Naga, Harry hissed into his wand " _Harry has come to visit again_ ", and then spelled the message away into the water. It was a spell he had created himself, so that he did not need to go through the difficulty of getting a message to the Naga ahead of time before meeting them, and was a rather convenient way of communicating with somebody underwater; not that he had had much need to do so, but he had passed the spell on so that others could also use it for that purpose.

It was a few minutes before the Naga came up from the water, as the habitat was quite far under the water, but when they did they shot up with a splash.

" _HARRYYY_ ," they hissed in unison as they arrived, slithering around him before sliding back into the water.

It seemed to take them a moment before they realised that Harry was not alone this time.

" _This is the other parseltongue you have always spoken of?_ " asked Krishna, the blue Naga.

" _Yes – Krishna, Dhriti, it is my pleasure to introduce you to Lord Voldemort_."

" _Ooh he's a Lord too, hello Lord Voldemort_ ," exclaimed Dhriti.

" _Pleased to meet you_!" Krishna also greeted.

" _I am honoured to be in your company_ ," Voldemort replied, sounding and looking completely awe-struck, as Harry had never seen him.

" _And we in yours_ ," said Krishna.

" _We are always keen to spend time with wizards; the Indian magicals have such funny customs! I'm sure your kind probably do too!_ " Dhriti laughed.

" _How much do you interact with humans?_ " Voldemort asked, leaning forwards.

" _We don't so often anymore_."

" _Only when there are issues of territory, really. We don't tend to approach humans out of nowhere in case they are not magical and get scared by us! They used to get very excited by us, and we were an important part of their religion, and still are, but when the white non-magicals started coming from you country we had to stop coming out, because they didn't like us very much_."

Harry sat and watched them interact for a while; many of the things Voldemort wanted to know, Harry had already asked them on previous visits, so he was content to let Voldemort be educated for now. It was interesting watching people speak in parseltongue; Voldemort and the Naga had had the language since birth, and so they likely did not notice anything out of place about the language they were speaking in, but Harry had only had it in the later decades of his adulthood. To Harry, the first things that he heard were the hisses, the strange sibilant sounds almost slithering around his mind, before eventually they would form into an English translation.

After a while, Krishna went off to retrieve some of their delicacy for Voldemort and Harry to try, while Dhriti continued chatting away to Voldemort.

" _Harry, it's your birthday today is it not?_ " Dhriti enquired as Krishna was emerging with food and drink.

" _Yes, my 100_ _th_ ," Harry confirmed.

" _We have something a bit more special for you today!_ "

Naga channelled magic through their mouths, as they did not have arms, and so in front of Krishna's mouth was a selection of foods, alongside drink; the liquid, which Harry had always been fascinated by, was preserved in a spherical shape, which would break down only at the touch of someone's lips. As much as Harry wanted to grab his favourite drink immediately, feeling the pressure of the heat still, he waited patiently, knowing that the Naga would want to show off the tasters for Voldemort.

" _Though our Harry has already tried these foods,_ " Krishna started, levitating the selection of foods in two neat lines, one in front of each wizard, " _we are especially keen, Lord Voldemort, for you to try our delicacies_."

" _The first is Svaadghaas,_ " Dhriti continued, and a clump of what looked rather like seaweed floated forwards.

The Naga both waited patiently as Voldemort took a bite out of it. He nodded appreciatively, this one tasting, in Harry's opinion, much like an extravagant salad blended together, and another moved forward, a muddier coloured food came forward, this time shaped like a star.

" _This taraa, Lord Voldemort, is known as the Keechad-mithaee, and is a traditional sweet in our culture, though it's not actually made from_ much _dirt; the ecological system is a bit different that far under the water, see, it's difficult to translate_."

Voldemort raised his eyebrows a little at the mention of dirt, but tried it anyway, as did Harry. This was one of Harry's favourites, him having a rather sweet tooth; he tended not to think about how it may have been made.

" _And our drinks, here, Harry loves our drinks, don't you?_ " gushed Krishna.

" _I do! I think it's fantastic how you create them underwater, yet you still won't tell me how_ ," he pouted a little, and Krishna winked while Dhriti laughed.

" _You can drink it easier than you think, just take it in your hands and drink as if it's in one of those human_ cups _you have, watch how Harry does it,_ " Dhriti instructed. " _The red is Rakt ka Paanee, and the yellow is Sooraj ka Ras, both two of Harry's favourites for his birthday_."

Both Dhriti and Krishna turned to Harry with proud toothy smiles, and Harry laughed back.

" _The sentiment is much appreciated_ ," he assured.

" _You're old for a human,_ " Krishna said. " _You need more caring for than usual_."

" _Thanks for reminding me!_ "

" _These are all fantastic,_ " said Voldemort, still obviously impressed by the very presence of the Naga.

" _You're both so sweet,_ " Krishna smiled.

" _But see we have a special birthday treat for you now, Harry. We did some research on what humans do to celebrate birthdays,_ " Dhriti paused, visibly excited.

The only item remaining was a discreet looking box, but Krishna now was lifting the lid, and out levitated a  _cake_.

" _It was admittedly very difficult to make a human cake underwater, as many of the ingredients are quite dry, but we tried our best!_ " Krishna beamed, proud.

Harry felt speechless, overwhelmed that the Naga were thoughtful enough to go to the effort of working in a human tradition of birthdays when he came.

" _They've certainly outdone me today,_ " Voldemort said, turning to Harry.

They had managed to preserve the cake to stay resistant to the water, and so when Harry took a piece it was still relatively dry. It was a plain sponge, but they had arranged some Svaadghaas on top to read a rough translation of  _Happy Birthday_  in Hindi, as parseltongue did not have much of a written form.

" _This is so lovely, thank you so much_ ," Harry said as he ate.

He could tell though that the Naga were ready to go back home; they were both starting to dip their heads in and out of the water quite frequently to try to stay cooler.

" _Go on, I'll let you get back_ ," Harry prompted, not wanting them to stay out of politeness.

" _Thank you for coming to see us again, Harry_ ," Dhriti grinned, and reached up to bop their head lightly against Harry's knee affectionately.

" _And thank you for introducing us to Lord Voldemort after all this time! It's been wonderful meeting you, Lord Voldemort_ ," Krishna said.

" _I hope I will be able to meet you again_ ," Voldemort responded.

After their goodbyes, the Naga swam off into the lake, and Harry and Voldemort were left, feet in the water.

"We should probably get inside somewhere; the sun protection charms aren't going to last forever," Harry said, getting up out of the water.

"I've booked a hotel room for us," Voldemort said, and side-along apparated Harry to the apparation area.

When they stepped into the building, Harry's first thoughts were relief at the coolness of the air. It hit him quite quickly, however, the grandness of the room he was in. There was gold embellishments  _everywhere_ , and adorning the tall ceiling was a humungous chandelier.

"Voldemort, what is this?" Harry asked shocked by the sheer grandeur.

"Potter, you are one of the most powerful wizards of the age, and you have just turned 100; you deserve luxury beyond imagination, and it truly shocks me that you haven't sought it beforehand," Voldemort drawled in response, nonplussed.

Harry fell silent at this statement; he hardly agreed with such a view of his status, but Voldemort was clearly set in this belief, and so he merely followed as they were taken via floo up to their floor, and into their room. The room was extremely lavish, as was the only way Harry could think to describe it. The polished wood floor was covered by a thick rug, beautifully patterned in rich pink and gold colours. Hangings and expensive paintings were placed neatly around the walls, and the bed was fit for a King, four-poster with mountains of sequinned pillows and cushions.

The moment the door fell shut Voldemort wrapped his arms around Harry, kissing him ferociously, pressing against him passionately. Harry's heart raced at the touch, responding eagerly. When he pulled away, Harry let out a soft pant.

"Careful, you need to go easy on me, I'm an old man now," Harry laughed.

"Ha! You've got another century yet," Voldemort laughed back, turning away to empty his bag.

Harry felt his heart miss a beat at the certainty of Voldemort's words; he knew that the man had issues with his own death, but it had not occurred to him that those issues would be generalised to Harry's. He was beginning to worry that Voldemort was in genuine denial about Harry's mortality.

"Will you be alright for the rest of the afternoon while I'm out? You can go see the markets or something, be back here for 7 and I'll take you out to dinner," Voldemort continued, sorting through his papers.

"You really are treating me," he commented.

"I'll expect the same treatment when I turn 100."

Voldemort gently kissed Harry on the neck, before leaving to visit the Indian Minister.

But Harry did not feel like going out; there was suddenly a massive weight on his chest, a pressure to  _not die at all_. But he had to die, it was the most natural process in existence. But he was very, very scared by how Voldemort would deal with it – Voldemort, with his immortality, was taking his time to mature and come to terms with such concepts, because he felt that he had forever. But Voldemort did not have forever to come to terms with death, certainly not if he cared for Harry as much as Harry suspected. The anxiety that was hitting him was too much to bear; as such, he decided to take a nap.

Much to his surprise, he managed to sleep right up until Voldemort returned from his meeting. Hearing the door open, he sat up from the bed, blinking slowly.

"Please tell me you've not been there the whole time I was gone," Voldemort said lightly as he spotted Harry.

"It's a common thing in Europe to nap during the afternoon."

"Merlin, you are old," Voldemort sighed. "Come on, let's go to dinner. I've booked us a table and I would rather we didn't miss it."

* * *

Harry woke up on the first day of November in 2024 with an ache in his chest. It was already set to be a cold winter, and as he aged he was feeling his whole body slow. It was not uncommon for him to wake up alone; Voldemort was always up before him, being much more youthful and energetic, as could be expected. As he sat up in bed, Voldemort entered, a cup of coffee in hand.

"I really shouldn't be encouraging this," Voldemort said, almost to himself. "Coffee can't be good for you at your age."

"But you can never say no to me," Harry said, gratefully taking the mug.

Voldemort, still only in boxers, got back into the bed and reached up to run his hand through Harry's hair. He had long gone grey, but the thick unruly characteristics had not been lost with age, and Harry knew that Voldemort rather liked playing with it, because it was all he did first thing in the morning. Harry's favourite types of mornings were when he woke up to a hand in his hair, rubbing his scalp comfortingly. They sat in silence, for a while, before Voldemort helped Harry out of bed and out onto the balcony, overlooking the Norwegian mountains. He had placed a warming charm, so they did not have to get fully dressed before going out; it had become something of a morning routine that they had not broken for the past few years, and though Harry still felt quite able, he enjoyed the slowness and safeness of doing the same thing each morning.

After this morning, however, the routine would shift. Voldemort was going away for a year with business in America, and so he would not be able to wake up with Harry each morning. Though he would never admit it, Harry knew that Voldemort was nervous about straying from a system which he had grown quite comfortable with. As they sat now, Harry could feel the soft eyes of Voldemort lying on him, watching his every movement, feeling his every sigh.

"Are you sure that you'll be okay?" he asked, arm snaking around Harry's waist.

"I'll be fine. It's much better for me to stay at home than go off adventuring. That time has past for me now."

"You can still move around, you'd be quite alright. And I don't have to go. I could stay here with you. I literally have forever to sort out the business," concern coloured his voice.

"I'm fine, I don't want to make you stay. I have things to be doing here anyway."

Voldemort did not press the issue. Instead, he went out to make breakfast, while Harry remained outside, his emotions clawing at his chest. He did not, in fact, want Voldemort to leave. He would be perfectly happy to spend every remaining second of his life in the man's company. But it would be wrong to make Voldemort stay, and so he strengthened his resolve, and convinced himself that a year did not matter. He had lived for over 110 years; another one was nothing in comparison to that.

When they had eaten, they dressed. When they had dressed, Voldemort fussed over what documents he had. Anything that he could find to prolong the time they had before he left, he was grasping onto. Harry felt his stomach flip, knowing too well the emotion behind it that Voldemort had no clue of.

In the last moment, Harry knew that he needed to be honest. His heart was beating fast against his chest, but he could not let Voldemort go without it.

"It's love, Voldemort."

"What?" Harry tried to soften his voice as he saw fear suddenly jump into the man's eyes.

"It's love. We're in love. And it hurts, sometimes, especially in moments like now. And that's okay. And sometimes you can't work out how to say it. And that's okay too. But I wanted you to know, to understand. We're in love."

Voldemort's mouth opened slightly, but he did not say anything. He understood, though; Harry could tell. Instead of saying anything, he stepped forward and held Harry gently in his arms, and kissed him sweetly on the lips. Though he looked more concerned and fearful than before, Lord Voldemort apparated away, not to return for another year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh this chapter hurts every time I read it back over lol. But I brought the naga back! Because they were secretly my favourite characters in this fic.  
> So, this is the last official chapter. But obviously we can't end it like this, we need closure! So the next chapter will be a short epilogue, which I hope you will all enjoy. Thank you for reading this messy and uncertain love story about two stubborn Dark Lords who eventually grow old and less stubborn, the sweethearts!


	14. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

The business trip had been going very well for Voldemort, and the year was nearly over. He was so close to getting the terms he demanded. He was in a meeting with the American ambassador when an owl flew in, dropping a heavy, black envelope on the desk in front of his.

He felt, more than heard, the  _thunk_  it made against the wood.

Voldemort's heart stopped.

It felt like forever as he stared at it, not daring to touch it. He did not want to discover that he was not imagining the document. But Voldemort was a practical man; he knew that he could not, would not, imagine such a thing. The ambassador looked uncomfortable.

"Ah, uh…" he stuttered, at loss for words. "I'm very sorry, Lord Voldemort. Take as much time as you need."

After he gathered himself and read the document, he went immediately to the Norway base, where he was greeted by a sharp-faced woman, whose stance was powerful.

"We're very sorry, Lord Voldemort," she offered her hand, and they shook, formal. Restrained. "I'm Celestia."

"May I see him?" Voldemort asked, hating how his voice cracked at the end of the sentence. He could not help this woman seeing him in his moment of weakness.

"Of course. We have not yet paid our respects to him; we felt that it would be appropriate for you to do so first. I'll be honest, I would not initially have thought even of writing to you, but… Well, I'll show you afterwards."

Voldemort nodded stiffly, and let Celestia guide him to the bedroom, where he had been lain to rest. The room was dark, with only the stubs of candles lighting the bed where Voldemort had last been with him almost a year ago. His whole body felt like lead as he looked over the man's body and the clothes he had been wearing in his death, a smart shirt and trousers. Harry's eyes were closed to appear in rest, and his heart clenched as he saw the watch he had given him as a gift, still bearing the words  _The Soul Never Gives Up_. How he desperately wished that was true. Voldemort slowly extended his hand and placed it gently on Harry's face, hoping with his whole being that the man would suddenly warm up, lean into the touch, mumble something in his sleep. The cheeks remained ice cold. His head did not move.

He had never paid his respects to the deceased before. He had always seen a dead man merely as a corpse, an object now devoid of life. But he could not bear to see Harry that way. He needed to believe that Harry was elsewhere, that Harry would be able to hear him, because so many things had been left unsaid, so many emotions that Voldemort had yet to come to terms with. What would he say? In what few words could he convey everything he could barely comprehend himself, to a dead man?

Performing the spell, Voldemort paused before speaking.

"You've broken me," Voldemort said, voice hoarse. "You've chipped away at me, bit by bit, and then left me to bleed out alone. I… want you to forgive me. For not having the bravery to be as open to you as you have been to me. May your soul never give up."

One last time, he ran his fingers through Harry's hair, remembering their last meeting, and left for good.

"If you don't mind, Lord Voldemort," Celestia said as he returned, "we would like to get the legal rubbish over and done with as soon as possible."

He followed her again into the office, not bothering to sit down. He picked up the documents, flicking through the pages.

"The important thing to note is that he left pretty much everything to you. His money, his property; the only thing that has been left to us is the political documents. I think, or at least I hope, that he was trusting you to allow us to keep using his properties to meet on a regular basis. But that's entirely down to you, now."

"That's fine," Voldemort said immediately. He did not care for the properties; he had his own. So long as he could still come back to relive what Harry had given him when he fancied, he did not care.

"This, however, is more sentimental," Celestia said, bringing over a stack of parchment carefully. "This is what he had been writing when he died; we think it was a heart attack."

 _A heart attack_. The knowledge stung Voldemort more than it should have. He was supposed to have been caring for Harry's heart, that was his sole purpose, though he had not realised it before. He had let Harry's heart grow weak. He had let Harry die.

He looked down the first page.

 _A Story of Mortality_ , it read as a title. Beneath:  _For Voldemort. Always for Lord Voldemort._

"I had a flick through, it's something of an autobiography, but there is a full section dedicated to you. Obviously it's quite personal, intimate information, and so I feel that it would be best if it was left to you whether or not it is published. If not, then naturally you may keep hold of it."

Voldemort nodded.  _Love_. This was love. It was so painful and yet he did not resent Harry in the least for inflicting it on him.  _Love_. Could he bear having his one weakness in such public display?

"Thank you for your assistance," Voldemort said to Celestia.

"Will you want to be involved in planning the funeral?"

"I ask only for an invitation, and the opportunity to speak."

* * *

The public funeral was never open-casket, the closest to the deceased already having said their goodbyes. Voldemort never got to see Harry again, other than the endless photographs of him flying around Britain and Europe. But they did not show Harry, they showed Lord Potter. Voldemort had not noticed a difference between the two until now. Now, it was painfully obvious.

There was hundreds of people who attended the funeral, wanting to share their condolences. Nobody was surprised to see their Minister in attendance: "He was a good man to work with," he would always say, and they would assume that his feelings ended there.

Too many people surrounding him to think at the funeral, he left shortly after the official ceremonies had ended, apparating to somewhere to find peace. Before he had met Harry, he had felt empty. He had been almost a shell of a person; he remembered well how he had been when he had first seen the man speak as a teenager, how different he had grown, and he felt he knew how he would have become if he had never met Harry.  _What_  he would have become. Now, he felt much the same. He felt empty, like he had in his childhood, but he suddenly felt older than ever before, the freedom of immortality doing nothing to boost his energy. His immortality was starting to feel more like a burden.

He had always thought that he knew what it meant to be mortal. He thought it meant weakness, he thought it meant fragility, and he was desperate to be rid of such a condition. But Harry had never been any of those things, and yet he was still undeniably, horribly mortal. Harry had never seen mortality as a weakness, or an obstacle to his goals. He had treated death so lightly, as if it were nothing to fear. He had been convinced of another world, another life, and Voldemort had mocked him for it. But now experiencing the effects of mortality first hand, he understood Harry better than he had ever done when he was alive. He wished the man was with him to witness the change. He could practically see Harry's smug face before him, laughing at his victory in changing Voldemort's mind on something he was so certain of.

Almost as he came to this realisation, Voldemort looked at where he had apparated to. It was the Gaunt Shack. A building shrouded by death and loss, certainly, but this was not the reason he had come here. This was where he had hidden his two horcruxes.

Maybe there was an afterlife. Maybe he would see Harry again. But those were not the most important things to Voldemort. In honour of Harry, Voldemort would become whole again. He would live as best as he could without him, and then he would die. He would dedicate the rest of his life to Harry, and his mortality.

Nothing felt more right in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much, your reviews and support have been appreciated so much. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing xx


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